


Tales of Avalon

by Smash_50



Series: Avalon [1]
Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (Video Games), Sonic the Hedgehog - All Media Types
Genre: Ages are all over the place but bear with me, Alternate Universe - Medieval, And many others as the other knights, Asexual Character, Children doing dangerous things that children shouldn't be doing, F/M, Just like in typical Sonic canon, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pining, Self-Indulgent, Ships happen later on, Sonic and the Black Knight, Swords, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 86,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23180209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smash_50/pseuds/Smash_50
Summary: From the day Nimue rescued Lancelot from drowning, she could tell he was destined for greatness. When young Arthur runs fast enough to cross the water of her lake, she knows she's found another piece to the puzzle.A series going through the lives of Camelot's finest knights and their king, their triumphs and their tragedies, and vows that bind them together no matter what.
Relationships: Galahad & Lancelot (Sonic and the Black Knight), Galahad/Percival (Sonic and the Black Knight), Gawain (Sonic and the Black Knight)/Rouge the Bat, King Arthur/Lancelot (Sonic and the Black Knight), Lancelot & Nimue (Sonic and the Black Knight), Nimue & Arthur (Sonic and the Black Knight)
Series: Avalon [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1801990
Comments: 312
Kudos: 282





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love medieval AUs. I love Sonic. SatBK is, therefore, my jam.
> 
> I take a lot of liberties but this is a fun little project for myself. I hope you enjoy it too.
> 
> (Title potentially subject to change.)

A disturbance roused Nimue from her slumber; Misty Lake was still overcome with haze, the full moon’s light scarcely able to pierce through and illuminate the water, yet the sound was unmistakable. Nimue heard footsteps, hooves trotting on dirt paths, and the sound of weak, uncoordinated limbs thrashing as they tried to keep afloat.

Quick as a flash, Nimue shook away the grogginess and rose to the surface of her lake, parting the mist as she travelled along the edge, the hem of her dress catching on the small twigs reaching up from the shallows. Once more, she heard it before she saw it, and swooped down to rescue the victim from the shallows of her home.

Nimue’s heart dropped when she saw that it was a baby, only a few months old, shivering and soaked to the bone. She wrapped it in her dress, ferrying it over to the small island in the middle of the lake.

“Do not be alarmed, little one,” she murmured, and the child fell silent.

On the small plot of land, Nimue dried the baby off. He was a tiny thing, a hedgehog like herself, with quills black as the night sky between the stars, streaked with red. His eyes remained closed, as though he was afraid of facing the world once more, and Nimue couldn’t bring herself to blame him; he had been thrown rather unceremoniously into her lake and left to die.

“The world is not as cruel as this,” she whispered to him, stroking his head. “Not always. This I promise you.” The baby still kept his eyes shut tight, and Nimue scooped him up into her arms once more. 

She knew that he was hers, now.

He would not be able to stay with her, not all the time. Misty Lake was hardly the best place to raise a child, especially when she herself could not leave the confines of her home. He needed dry land, a place to put his feet, and a family to feed him. The rose-colored lady already had some candidates in mind as she felt the baby nuzzle into her arm and fall asleep.

He had a remarkable inner strength, underneath the infant fear. Latent potential that would only grow and grow. Nimue’s heart warmed as she looked down at her new son, and stroked his head once more.

“You are destined for great things, little one. You must have a name to match your remarkable abilities…”

As she sat down, cradling the youth to her chest, her mind went through lists of names and of families to help raise him, until the moon disappeared and the sky went from black to a soft blue between the trees up above. She hailed a pigeon, tying a message to its leg, instructing it to summon an old acquaintance of hers, who lived alone with his granddaughter.

Though she was loath to give up the baby so quickly, she knew it was for the best. In the time while she waited for a response, she whispered to her little son.

“If you are ever lost, or confused, or frightened, do not hesitate to find me. This lake will always be kind to you, and I will always care for you, my Lancelot.”

Lancelot blinked open his eyes, red and vibrant as the sun in the sky. A small hand reached upwards and closed around Nimue’s finger, and as she laughed, so did he.

_ Your tale shall be a splendid one, Lancelot du Lac. I pray that it ends happily. _


	2. Chapter 2

The forest was still, until a slight disturbance parted the grass and rustled the leaves in the trees with a change so quick and minute that an onlooker might have thought they were imagining things. Yet the grass kept shifting, the leaves kept trembling, all in a line zipping in and out between the trees.

Young Arthur Pendragon was running again.

The boy, once having discovered his remarkable speed, made each and every effort to use it, hence his frequent runs through the forests of Avalon. His feet barely kicked up any dirt as he sped forward, his footfalls hardly made a sound, as though he was running on the air itself. The boy’s eyes blinked often, still getting used to the feeling of strong winds in his face. Every day he ran just a little further, a little faster, despite his parents’ warnings of danger in the forests, but the boy figured that he could outrun any threat, and so long as he could find the edge of the forest again, he would have no trouble finding his way home.

Arthur laughed to himself in giddy delight as he dodged yet another tree and flew into a clearing, but it quickly turned into a gasp as he realised that he was running on water. Fear seized at his gut and he had to force himself to keep running, to not falter under the fear of drowning. Once he had reached solid ground again, he took a moment to stop, catch his breath, and regain his composure, with his hands on his knees as he hyperventilated. Shaking his head, he looked back up at his surroundings to calm himself down.

It was a quaint little lake, hidden in the middle of the forest, with an odd mist hanging low over the water. Arthur reached out a tiny blue hand, as if to try to touch it, but a voice froze him in his tracks.

“That was an impressive display.”

Arthur looked back around and found a young woman sitting on the surface of the lake, as though it were glass instead of water. A hedgehog like himself, but pink instead of blue. Her green eyes were regarding him curiously, and Arthur tried to remember what his parents had told him about meeting new people.

He either had to be very careful, or very polite. This lady looked fancy. He settled on the latter.

Bowing his head, the boy said, “Thank you very much, miss. I love to run, but I can’t swim.”

The lady gave a soft giggle behind her hand, regarding him again with amusement. “Lucky, then, that your speed saves you. Tell me, child, what is your name?”

“My name is Arthur Pendragon!” replied the youth without a second thought to his parents’ warnings about talking to strangers. “I’m five years old today! What is your name, and how old are you?”

The lady’s amusement didn’t falter as she spoke. “My name is Nimue, the Lady of the Lake. And a word to the wise, it is impolite to ask a lady her age.” She laughed again at the bewildered look on Arthur’s face, and before he could ask her about the finer points of age-related etiquette, she continued. “Not many find their way to my lake, but you are a special youth, are you not?”

“I suppose I am…” Arthur pouted, thinking about it. “No one else I know is as fast as I am. I love running fast, but sometimes it feels… like I’m alone.”

Nimue’s amusement ebbed, replacing itself with something more akin to empathy. “Loneliness is a terrible feeling,” she returned, watching the child’s expression morph from subdued to curious. “However, I believe there may be someone who could be almost as fast as you.”

With the way Arthur’s eyes lit up, it was almost as though he alone could dispel the mist over the lake.

“Who? Where?”

“In time, young one.” Nimue took out an ink pen and a piece of parchment from a sack at her waist, and scribbled something down, folding it up gently. Then, to finish, she dipped her fingers into the lake before running them over the folds, sealing them with a few muttered words. Arthur watched her with wide green eyes.

“You’re magic?”

“Could you not tell?” Nimue replied, amusement returning. “I am sitting on water.”

Arthur flushed with embarrassment and began mumbling out various excuses before Nimue handed him the paper. “In another five years, when you are ten, return to this place with my letter, and I shall bring to you, he who will be able to keep pace with you, and perhaps I will have a small test to find out the extent of your abilities.”

“But! But that’s so long!”

“Indeed, young one. Five years is a long time to feel lonely, but do not fret. Keep your head high and your heart open, keep running like the wind itself, and before long, we shall meet again.”

Arthur opened his mouth to speak some more, but he wound up distracted by the thick fog enveloping the lake and swallowing up Nimue with it. As his hands clutched at the small piece of parchment, he heard her final words to him.

“Until then, the happiest of birthdays to you, Arthur Pendragon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Avalon is supposed to be an island, but I needed a name for the land. I'll be keeping it Avalon for the time being.


	3. Chapter 3

Lancelot strode along the surface of the lake, silencing the doubts in his mind and the sensation that, at any point, reality would come crashing back down on him and plunge him into the murky depths below. The lake had accepted him as its own a long time ago, and he neither wanted, nor could afford to question it.

His mother had summoned him a week ago by carrier pigeon, and Lancelot wasted no time in arriving promptly when he was told. He owed his life to Nimue, and though she could not look after him on her own, she had provided him with a family he cherished. Despite his dark, uncertain beginnings, he was pleased with where he was now.

“Welcome home, my dear Lancelot.”

He turned and saw his mother gliding toward him, graceful as a swan, and he bowed his head to her. “Hello, Mother,” he greeted politely, but a soft smile on his face betrayed just how glad he was to see her again.

Nimue, in turn, curtsied to him before laughing in mirth and embracing him. Lancelot sunk into her hold, feeling her rest her chin upon his head, and closed his eyes. It wasn’t often that he got to see his mother like this; his family lived many villages away, almost halfway across the land, and though he boasted extraordinary speed and strength, he was still a young boy who tired quickly after bursts of extreme energy. Travelling took many days, and though his grandfather and sister were often unable to accompany him, Lancelot had found in himself the ability and discipline to look after himself when he needed to.

When Nimue released him, he took a step back to regard her. His mother looked regal as always, untouched by time, with a gentle, placid face that he had never seen twisted in anger. Lancelot didn’t doubt that his mother _could_ get angry, but it was a side of her he never wished to awaken.

“How have you been faring?” she asked him, smoothing out his quills and readjusting his tunic. “Has your grandfather been feeding you well? And your sister, is she still in good health?”

“Everything is fine, Mother,” he insisted, resisting the urge to step away from her fussing. “If anything were happening, you are the first I’d tell.”

“Good. Keep it that way.” Though said seriously, Lancelot was well attuned to his mother’s underlying playfulness. It was a quality that never truly went away when she spoke, even if she tried to hide it. He had always thought it odd, and now, at age ten, he had a guess as to why.

“Mother? Are you very lonely?”

Nimue’s stunned look made him wish he hadn’t spoken. Perhaps this would be the day he incurred his mother’s wrath after all. Lancelot braced himself for anything from a scolding to catastrophic anger, but only a sad laugh escaped the woman before him.

“Odd that you would ask me that. It has much to do with why I summoned you here today.”

Lancelot had many questions, but Nimue simply guided him to the edge of the lake and stood with him in wait, refusing to answer any more questions. Lancelot shifted in the uncomfortable silence, guilt pooling in his gut. He had simply thought of his mother, how isolated she was, and how whenever he saw her, she always seemed so lively underneath all her restraint.

He wanted to make sure she was okay as well.

All of a sudden, Nimue’s head snapped to the left, and Lancelot followed her gaze. He looked at the trees, uncertain what he was supposed to be searching for. He blinked, and suddenly there was a third person standing before them. A boy, Lancelot’s age or perhaps somewhat younger, with wide, bright eyes and a face unable to hide his excitement.

“Arthur,” his mother greeted. “You’ve returned.”

“Even if I was ill or dead, I wouldn’t miss today for the world!” the boy replied, doing an odd little leap before catching himself and kneeling into a bow. Nimue laughed, a free, amused little noise that took Lancelot by surprise.

Just who was this boy who had appeared out of nowhere?

“Do you have my letter?” Nimue asked next, and the boy, Arthur, scrambled to his feet and rooted around his person before pulling out a worn bit of parchment and handing it back to her. Nimue examined it, a coy smile playing on her mouth. “You tried to open it, didn’t you?”

Arthur’s eyes widened in dismay at having been caught, and Lancelot couldn’t imagine why. The parchment was so wrinkled with effort to open it that he thought it would be obvious to anyone who looked at it. “I… I apologize but… I wanted to know what was written in there so badly!”

Nimue ran her fingertips over the edges of the paper before handing it back to Arthur. “In that case, I suppose that this shall suffice as a birthday present?”

The paper was out of her grasp in an instant, and Lancelot felt offended on his mother’s behalf. He glowered silently as Arthur unfolded the parchment, and saw his face set in confusion.

“A map?”

“I promised you a test, did I not?”

And just like that, the boy’s face glowed again at the prospect of an adventure. His eyes scanned the paper, following the small notes and markings that had been left on it, but all too frequently, his gaze would travel upwards to Lancelot before flicking right back down. Lancelot crossed his arms tightly in front of his chest; he didn’t care for being observed like that, though he knew he himself had been openly glaring at the newcomer since he arrived.

Finally, the blue hedgehog spoke again. “It’s him, right? The one you talked about?”

“Indeed. Arthur, meet my son, Lancelot du Lac. Lancelot, this is Arthur Pendragon. Please show some courtesy to our guest.”

Embarrassed, Lancelot dropped his arms and tried to relax his face into something more pleasant. “Greetings.”

In return, he got a genuine, albeit awkward, wave of the hand.

“Lancelot…” The boy looked up at his mother, worried that perhaps he had been too standoffish, but her gentle smile soothed him. “It may not be your birthday, but I have a gift for you as well.”

Lancelot stood still as Nimue fastened four golden rings to his person, one on each wrist and one on each ankle. “These rings will help you unlock and control that strength and speed you possess,” she explained. “The last I heard from your grandfather, you seem to still be finding it in bursts.” She giggled at Lancelot’s embarrassed grunt in reply. “They’re also rather powerful when it comes to dispelling enchantments. I hope you will find them useful on your quest.”

Lancelot raised a brow, but before he could ask, Arthur cut in.

“Quest?”

Nimue nodded, peaceful and serene. “I hope for the two of you to harness your powers, work together, and retrieve the sacred sword Caliburn from the stone where he lies in wait.”

Lancelot’s eyes widened. _Caliburn?!_ He knew that name, and he realized his mother’s hypothesis in an instant. “You mean--”

“A sacred sword?” Arthur echoed, cutting him off.

“Indeed. Should you be successful in freeing Caliburn, bring him back to me, but if neither of you are able to free him, do not fret. It is not your decision to make. You will, however, need to be prepared for such a journey. You cannot go unarmed.”

Lancelot frowned. He had left his training equipment at home when he had set out to see his mother; more often than not it weighed him down more than it helped him, but now it seemed as though he was due another long trip back--

“That shouldn’t be a problem. I know someone who makes swords and stuff all the time! I’m sure we can borrow a few things.”

...or perhaps not.

“Then it’s settled. Please escort Lancelot and begin your journey.” Nimue smiled once more at the both of them, then turned to her son and placed one hand on each shoulder, giving them a gentle, encouraging squeeze. “My dear Lancelot, I beseech you, when you travel with Arthur, _run as fast as you possibly can_.”

Lancelot started, blinking at his mother in surprise. He was the fastest person he knew, save for the highs and lows of his energy, and with the rings his mother gave him, surely he would be able to run endlessly at his full potential. Yet his mother never said anything empty and meaningless, and certainly her request was genuine. Lancelot swallowed his confusion and nodded in return.

“Which way?” he asked Arthur, and the other boy pointed wildly to the north, teetering on his toes with anticipation. Bidding one last farewell to his mother, Lancelot took a deep breath, and darted through the trees.

Immediately, he felt the difference. No longer did he start off feeling like there was too much within him, that he would lose focus or balance and fall to the ground. Lancelot felt in absolute control of himself, and the rush of delight that coursed through him was enough to make him grin. The blood pounded in his ears, and it almost muffled the sound of footfalls right beside him.

Almost.

Arthur was running right by his side, wearing an identical grin, his eyes glowing with joy, and Lancelot understood that, somehow, he had met his match in speed.

“She was right!” Arthur cheered, his voice carried away by the wind. “Okay Lancelot, follow me, and try to keep up!”

Lancelot was prepared to scoff, but Arthur dashed forward with some kind of divine speed, faster than the wind, perhaps as fast as sound itself… Lancelot had to actually make an effort to tail him, and in record time, both boys made it to Arthur’s town. As they paused to catch their breath, Arthur kept looking up at him to grin.

He was young. He was naive. The youth in his eyes wouldn’t last, and his manners could stand to improve greatly. From the instant they had received their quest, Lancelot was certain that, between the two of them, he himself would be one to release Caliburn from the stone.

Yet after following Arthur, who ran like he was born from the mighty winds and gales of Avalon, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wikipedia: Nimue provides Lancelot with a magic ring that dispels enchantments.
> 
> Me: Inhibitor rings.


	4. Chapter 4

As Arthur led Lancelot through the crowded streets of his home, he lamented that they couldn’t race any more, unless they wished to disrupt the people and the peace on the street. Instead, he turned to conversation, and on their way to his friend’s workshop, he learned that Lancelot was the same age as him, lived in a town halfway across the land, and that Nimue had found him as an infant.

“So you don’t know who bore you?” he asked, tilting his head to one side.

Lancelot shook his head, yet another frown gracing his brow. “No, and I don’t care to find out. They wished me dead, and I’m far happier with Mother and my family in the mountains.”

“Other hedgehogs?” Arthur pried further.

“No. Humans.”

“Really? My parents are humans, too!”

That earned him a surprised look from his companion, and Arthur silently counted the break in Lancelot's facade as a personal victory.

“They’re not… _parents_ ,” Lancelot finally said, regaining his composure. “They’re my grandfather and my sister.”

“Oh, I see. I have a…” Arthur cut himself off before he could accidentally say ‘sister’ as well. “...brother of sorts. He’s the one we’re going to see.” He raised his hand, showing off the steel gauntlet he wore. “He made this for me, you know. As a birthday present. He’s a really smart kid, a genius really, and he’s made so many swords and armor that he needs to start selling them before he drowns in his work.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Kind of. I call him Smithy, as in blacksmith.”

Lancelot narrowed his eyes. “Wouldn’t he rather be called by his name?”

Arthur twiddled his thumbs, wondering the best way to go about answering. “No. He’s always liked it when I called him Smithy, ever since he made his first dagger.”

Lancelot’s sharp red eyes were still narrowed, and for the longest time Arthur wasn’t sure if he was going to demand an explanation for his evasive way of answering, though in the end he remained silent. Arthur filled the silence with idle chatter about his family and theories about the quest they were given, folding and unfolding the map in his hands, until they reached their destination. Arthur knocked at the door before pushing it open, holding it open for Lancelot once he had passed through. The air was thick and heavy with heat from the forge, and all over the walls were tools and projects ranging from just started to complete. A young fox poked his head around the corner and his face brightened in a big smile.

As Smithy waved them over, calling out in greeting, Arthur could see Lancelot taking in the particularly petite frame, high pitched voice and long eyelashes. Smithy was still young, and features such as those weren’t particularly rare among kids his age, but Lancelot appeared to put the pieces together. Arthur braced himself, prepared to step in if necessary, yet his companion simply greeted his brother with, “Good day, you are Smithy, correct? Arthur has praised your work a great deal.”

Arthur let himself relax; Lancelot wouldn’t judge or comment, it seemed. As he started explaining their quest, he noticed Lancelot taking occasional glances at Smithy’s face, as though trying to rid himself of the initial assumptions one would have, but Arthur could hardly blame him.

After all, it had only been a fortnight since Smithy had informed Arthur that he was a boy, and Arthur still slipped up every now and then. It would come easier with time.

“In short, you need me to equip you with some armor, and give you each a sword?” the fox summarized, undulating his twin tails ー another aspect that Lancelot was wise enough not to bring up ー as he thought it over. “I have plenty to choose from, but it may be ill-fitting. I’ve never built armor to order, except for Arthur's gauntlet…”

“Then I suppose we’ll try everything until we get close enough!” Arthur decided, ready to take on the challenge.

* * *

It was a task easier said than done; Smithy had cleared a wall and a half of his workshop before he had found a suitable, though mismatched, ensemble for both adventurers. Arthur shifted, his lanky frame loose underneath the armor provided to him, and gripped at the sword he had procured; Lancelot, in a similar vein, was wiggling his fingers underneath his too-tight gauntlets. With a ‘thank you’ to Smithy, and a returned promise to outfit them in more suitable armor another day, they set off, speed hindered somewhat by the newfound weight on their heads, shoulders and feet.

Arthur led the chase, map gripped in front of him, as they navigated across fields and meadows, past lakes, rivers and streams. Now and again the boys would pause to take a break, and every time Arthur would have new questions for his companion.

“Why do you ask me so many things?” Lancelot finally demanded, to which Arthur could only look at him in surprise for a moment.

“Don’t you want to know the one you’ll be fighting with?”

With the way Lancelot stiffened and averted his gaze, Arthur could only assume that he did. Arthur pursed his lips; Lancelot had yet to ask him any personal questions, and he wondered if he was at all skilled in friendly conversation. Lancelot was polite and quiet, for the most part ー Arthur hadn’t missed the way he had glared at him when they first met.

“Your brother…” Lancelot finally spoke up, flexing his fingers once more. “He’s… very skilled.”

He was trying.

“He is! I’m sure he’ll be the most famous blacksmith in Avalon,” Arthur boasted.

“Is that his dream?” Arthur nodded, and Lancelot stood up, looking him in the eye. “And what is _your_ dream?”

Arthur supposed he had brought this upon himself when he wished Lancelot would ask some questions of his own ー he should have known he wouldn’t have wasted any time going into the deeper subjects.

“My dream…”

For the longest time, it was to meet someone fast like he was. Now, with Lancelot before him, Arthur had to find his next goal.

It was easier than he had anticipated.

“...is to do the right thing.”

That earned him an odd look. “The right thing.”

“The right thing. Even if it’s not always the best thing, or the easy thing, or the thing that makes everyone happy. I want to… I want to do right by people. To do what I ought to do, wherever and whenever I’m needed. I want to be there.”

For a moment, Arthur stared silently at Lancelot, who seemed to be mulling something over. When they stood again, there was a new resolve in his companion’s face before he lowered his visor.

“Lead the way, Arthur.”

“Ha. Thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

By all means, they should not have said ‘yes’.

Nimue had hinted that she was testing their speed, so a detour was the last thing they should have done. Their armor, though complete, was ill-fitting, too loose or too tight, and neither was used to wearing it yet. They both had some idea of how to wield a sword, but neither was trained.

But Arthur just couldn’t turn down a frightened child in need.

It was fitting, he supposed, as he leapt out of reach from the dragon’s talons, that so soon after sharing his dream and resolve with his companion, that he would be given a chance to fulfill it. He gripped his weapon, slashing at the bottom of the dragon’s massive jaw, and dodging once again as it turned to attack him. He didn’t worry so much about being hurt by it ー he was confident in his ability to evade ー but he needed to stop it from crushing any more of the village behind them.

“Arthur!”

Arthur zipped away from the dragon towards Lancelot, who, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, had immediately decided to join him in battle despite having every reason not to. The other boy was breathing heavily, having both dealt and received more damage than Arthur in this battle, yet he still pointed toward their foe.

“It’s the horn! The horn is the weak point!”

Arthur lifted his visor, looking up at their massive opponent, eyes zeroing in on the singular spike on the creature’s nose. He wouldn’t have guessed it himself.

“Nicely done, but how do we get to it?”

“We stun it.” With that, Lancelot knelt to the ground, cupping his hands together and looking at Arthur in tense expectancy, and Arthur inferred the rest of the plan right away. He backed up, stepped onto Lancelot’s hands, took a leap…

...and was catapulted high into the air.

Arthur flew so high he eclipsed the sun, dwarfing the monster below him; he didn’t have a second to waste, not even to appreciate his fellow warrior’s incredible strength. He aligned himself with the base of the dragon’s skull, tucked himself into a ball, and dove downward, spinning like a cannonball until he hit his mark with an ear-shattering _crack_.

The dragon collapsed below him, and with only a second to recover from the impact, Arthur was on his feet again, dashing towards the horn. A feral cry rang from his mouth as he swung his sword, slicing cleanly through the spike up above as a twin blade severed it from below. As the horn, split into two massive pieces, fell from the dragon’s face, Lancelot was by his side, having attacked at the same time. Arthur, quick as a flash, grabbed on to his fellow warrior’s arm and pulled him away from the beast, right before it tossed back its head and howled before slumping to the ground, utterly defeated.

As the boys caught their breath and Arthur shook his head to recover from the impact to the dragon’s skull, the people of the village started running out of their houses to see the results of the battle.

“Lancelot.”

His companion turned his head, face still hidden by his visor, and Arthur couldn’t help but think how much the look of a knight suited him.

“Thank you. You could have finished our quest on your own, while I--”

Lancelot held up one hand, effectively instructing Arthur to silence himself. “I was simply doing the right thing,” he responded, tone banal and nonchalant, and yet it was everything Arthur wanted to hear. He grinned and clapped his friend ー yes, he would call Lancelot his friend from now on without hesitation ー on the back, and he could have sworn he saw a small smile hidden underneath his visor before it vanished as quickly as it came.

* * *

It was just shy of nightfall as the boys looked up the small cliff to the sword lodged in the stone. A light breeze danced through their quills, sneaking its way in between their armor and chilling them as the sun continued to set, yet neither moved.

“Would you like to do the honors?” Arthur finally asked. To his great surprise, Lancelot shook his head.

“I believe it should be you.”

“But why?” Arthur protested. “Your speed rivals mine, it was your strength and cleverness that helped us slay the dragon, so aren’t you the most worthy candidate to retrieve the sword?”

“If I am, then I shall pull it if you fail, but as it stands, I doubt you will.”

Arthur had his own doubts, but nothing would come out of arguing. “If you insist.”

He took a running start and glided up the rocks to the top where the hilt of the sword lay in wait. He took it within his hands, and with one more confused look to his friend, he gave the smallest of tugs upward…

...and Caliburn slid instantly from its rocky prison.

Arthur’s eyes widened, staring at the sword in the dying light, and almost dropped it as a voice came from it. “A mere knave, perhaps, but we shall make a knight out of you.”

“You… you talk!”

“As do you,” came the dry response, and Arthur began to wonder just how hard he had hit his head when he had fought the dragon earlier on. “Will you introduce yourself, or will you keep me waiting?”

“I… I am Arthur Pendragon.”

“I see. Greetings, Arthur Pendragon. I am Caliburn, the sword in the stone, and the one who decides who is fit to rule Avalon.”

Arthur’s heart almost stopped in his chest. “What do you mean?” he asked. “What do you mean, ‘fit to rule’?”

“Did you _really_ come to collect me without first doing your research? I do not know where the Lady of the Lake finds children such as yourself, surely you didn’t just run off without all the information, did you?”

As the sun set and the stars came out, Arthur looked from the sword scolding him in his hand, down to Lancelot, who had dropped into a kneel before him, and he realized he had more than just a few questions for Nimue once they returned to Misty Lake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a lot to cover in this chapter, so I'm sorry if it's a bit lackluster! Suffice to say, though, that was definitely Arthur's most exciting birthday he's had so far.
> 
> (And yes, that's me saying Tom and Maddie Wachowski as Uther and Igraine Pendragon.)


	5. Chapter 5

Lancelot sped across the valley, gripping his prize tightly. He had fought hard and worked tirelessly to prove his worth alongside all the other hopeful young knights at Camelot Castle. He was strong, he was fast, he was clever, and second to none. When he finally got the chance to prove his excellence, he took it, and the spoils were clasped in his hands. He was now the wielder of a sacred sword, powerful Arondight, a feat that would be counted as nothing short of legendary among his peers, and yet all he could think about was how he was running late.

Today was the day that Arthur Pendragon, his closest friend, would be crowned king.

Lancelot cursed under his breath as his shoe caught on a stone, tearing it out of the ground with the impact. He kicked outward, spinning neatly to one side to dodge it, and continued on his way, straining with the effort to make up for lost time. He _had_ to make it, he had promised to be there, and he wasn’t about to make excuses as to why he hadn’t been there at the biggest event of Arthur’s life, ambushes be damned.

Gritting his teeth, he couldn’t help but wish that he could borrow Arthur’s unbeatable speed 一 though he was fast, Arthur remained the only person who could not only best him in a race, but best him consistently. He was, perhaps, the fastest thing alive.

Absolutely deserving of the moniker he had received.

* * *

_“If you were a knight, what would you want to be called?”_

_Lancelot glanced up from his book. “If?”_

_Arthur scoffed, tapping his foot impatiently. “Fine._ **_When_ ** _you become a knight, what would you want to be called?”_

_The black hedgehog dropped his gaze back to his book. “Sir Lancelot, I suppose.”_

_“No, no, you’re not understanding me. I mean a title…_ **_that’s not ‘Sir’_** _,” he added, silencing Lancelot’s retort before he could send it his way._

_Lancelot closed his book, pushing it to the edge of the table, folding his hands in front of him. “I assume this is your way of telling me that you thought of one for yourself?”_

_Given Arthur’s sudden redness and spluttering, he knew he had hit the nail on the head._

_“Let’s hear it, then.”_

_Recovering from his embarrassment, Arthur flashed him the brightest grin he had seen in a long time, perhaps since they had started their knight’s training, and picked Caliburn up, striking a dramatic pose as the sword called out in surprise. “Sir Arthur, the Knight of the Wind!”_

_“Put me down this instant, you knave!”_

_“That’s Sir Knave of the Wind to you!”_

_As Arthur bickered with his sword 一 a common occurrence 一 Lancelot mulled it over._ **_Knight of the Wind_** _. Arthur frequently had asinine thoughts or ideas, and he spewed them forth without any hesitation, but sometimes there was a shred of brilliance in what he said._

_“I think it suits you perfectly.”_

_Arthur, who was presently trying to stuff Caliburn into a spare scabbard, looked up in surprise at his friend’s comment. He lifted Caliburn back up, grinning from ear to ear._

_“See? He thinks so,” he gloated, gently placing the sword upright against the wall once more, where it sighed and grumbled a few more choice phrases about ‘perhaps having made an error in judgement just this once’._ _It was never serious; Caliburn hadn't once told Arthur that he was unfit to rule._

_“But I’m glad you think so,” Arthur admitted, turning back to his friend, pulling up a chair and sitting beside him. “The Knight of the Wind, because the wind is the one I run with, and my only master until my death!”_

_Lancelot fought the urge to snort. “I don’t think you quite grasp what being a knight is. Your master is and will always be your king and kingdom.”_

_“Oh, but did you forget?” Arthur’s grin was so triumphant that his eyes were glowing. “That will be me one day.”_

_“Then perhaps King of the Wind would be more apt? If you do not plan on following our king, I don’t see how you’ll become a knight--”_

_“Oh hush.” Arthur’s grin had transformed into a frown, and this time Lancelot couldn’t hold back his smirk, but that disappeared just as quickly when Arthur’s face fell and his eyes clouded in an emotion that rarely made itself seen in him. He looked **scared**. “Lancelot, do you think I really can be king?” _

_Lancelot paused, expecting an interjection from Caliburn, but when the sword remained silent, he gave it some thought._

_“Well, you certainly need to learn the meaning of ‘chivalry’ first.”_

_“Ugh. The second I become king, I’m changing the definition of ‘chivalry’.”_

_“To what? ‘Doing the right thing’?”_

_He had meant it as a jab, but the light returned to Arthur’s eyes, and Lancelot figured that it was a win either way._

_“Now you’re getting it! All my knights will follow the code of Morals Before Honor, and_ **_you_** _-” he pointed a finger right in Lancelot’s face, “-will be the first one!”_

_Lancelot pushed Arthur’s hand away, rolling his eyes. “It’s an honor, my liege.”_

_“And as such,” Arthur barrelled on, ignoring his friend’s sarcasm, “you’ll need a title as magnificent as the Knight of the Wind, so that all will see you coming and point at the most chivalrous of all my knights!”_

_“If I make one up, will you please let me return to my book?” Arthur nodded vigorously and leaned forward in his chair, invading his personal space, and Lancelot knew that he had to come up with something quickly. “As my name is Lancelot du Lac, and ‘du Lac’ means ‘of the lake’, then I suppose I would be the Knight of the Lake.”_

_Arthur leaned back in his chair and groaned. “No, no that doesn’t suit you at all! Lakes are calm and still and… I suppose you’re calm and still_ **_sometimes_ ** _but that’s not what’s important about you!”_

_“Important… about me?” Lancelot looked over at Arthur through the corners of his eyes, suddenly very interested to hear what he had to say._

_“Of course! You’re almost as fast as I am, you’re smart like Smithy, but instead of building and making things, you’re good at plans and figuring things out, and you’re so strong! I think you’re the strongest knight-to-be that we have! You’re like a…” Arthur waved his hand idly as he searched for the term. “...a jack of all trades!”_

_Lancelot blinked in surprise. Arthur had made no effort to hide that he celebrated Lancelot’s capabilities, but to hear from him in his own words just how much he seemed to admire him… it warmed him from the inside out so suddenly that it was almost overwhelming._

_Almost._

_“...But a master of none, right?”_

_“Hardly! You’re one step away from being a master of all!”_

_Lancelot’s face felt like it was on fire, and he hurriedly steered the topic back on course. “Well… maybe then I’d be the Black Knight? Or the Shadow Knight?”_

_Arthur rubbed his chin as he pondered the new options. “Shadow Knight is a good one, but if I had to choose one for you myself…”_

_Lancelot was suddenly very aware that he had stopped breathing while waiting for Arthur’s verdict._

_“...I’d call you the Ultimate Knight.”_

* * *

That had been two years ago, and Lancelot hardly felt ‘Ultimate’ as Camelot Castle finally came into his line of sight. He heard the bells chiming from the tower; the coronation had already begun. Growling in frustration, he raced toward the outer wall, hoping beyond hope that he would be let inside. He had assured Arthur that he could pick up Arondight and still be back before the crown was set on his head.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Arthur had said, and Lancelot refused to go back on his word.

_It simply wouldn’t be the right thing to do._

He made it to the drawbridge, sword held high, and thankfully no one tried to stop him as he sped in through the outer wall and towards the castle inside. He zipped through halls and doorways, until he got to the throne room’s large, very closed doors.

_Damn_. So much for sneaking in. Only one thing to do now.

Lancelot pushed up his visor, held his head up high, and pushed open the doors.

Immediately, a sea of faces turned toward him. Among them, he saw Smithy and Arthur’s parents in the first row smiling widely as they saw him enter, the other knights-in-training shooting him glares from their shared row, and the retired knights, faithful still to the old king, with varying looks from impressed to annoyed.

And in the middle of it all, Arthur looked overjoyed.

Smithy had outdone himself, Lancelot mused, as he sat on the bench reserved for the knights in training next to Geraint, who glared daggers at him. Arthur’s golden armor shone in the sun, bright and yet not garish, somehow mixing gloriously with the deep red cape and royal blue quills. Lancelot watched, captivated, as Arthur underwent the coronation ceremony, taking it seriously, but the way he said the words adding some of the flair that made him truly Arthur. As the crown was lowered onto his head and he stood up, holding Caliburn aloft in the air, Lancelot found himself joining in as the crowd chanted ‘Long live the king! Long live the king!’

In the center of it all, radiant Arthur smiled confidently, with none of the subtle fear that Lancelot had seen in him for weeks, since the news of the former king’s passing. Arthur, only fifteen years old, looked like a true king.

A true king that Lancelot was willing to follow to the ends of Avalon.

As the chanting died down and Arthur sat on the throne, the new king cleared his throat, and all at once, no one uttered a sound.

“It’s an honor to be sitting here,” Arthur began, shifting his grip on the scepter in his hand. “Five, almost six years ago, we never would have imagined a day such as this, but it is thanks to some very special people that we have found our way here.”

Lancelot didn’t expect hearing the royal we coming from Arthur’s mouth to sound so _off_ , but everything had changed now. Everything was changing, and as Arthur-- _King_ Arthur continued his speech, thanking his parents, his brother, his friends, Lancelot was beginning to realize just how much.

“But we would be remiss if we did not acknowledge three crucial beings. First, our greatest thanks to Nimue, the Lady of the Lake, who saw in us our greatest potential, and who guided us to Caliburn, our brilliant sword and teacher.” King Arthur held his sword up high in his other hand for all to see. “Caliburn, you are the second who we wish to thank from the bottom of our hearts.”

“I knew I was not remiss in choosing you, Sire.”

By all means, the most polite, yet still genuine exchange that Lancelot had ever seen between the two.

“And how can we forget our most loyal companion?”

Lancelot’s heart all but stopped.

“From the day we met, we knew that he would be one to keep by our side, and so it is our pleasure not only to thank, but to summon Lancelot du Lac before us.”

Lancelot sucked in a breath and stood, doing his best to seem calm and collected, but faced with a mass of people all looking at him, he felt his stomach tie itself into knots. Geraint all but growling hardly helped matters, and Lancelot wondered how Arthur managed to be so confident in front of so many.

He strode up to the throne and dropped into a kneel, bowing his head and resting Arondight before him. He heard shifting, a small thud, and King Arthur’s boots appeared in his field of vision. “You may raise your head,” came the disguised command, and Lancelot looked up at the face of his closest friend, now his king. When Caliburn was lowered gently onto one shoulder, and then the second, Lancelot’s eyes widened.

“Henceforth, you shall be Sir Lancelot du Lac… the Ultimate Knight.”

With all the nerves in his gut, Lancelot couldn’t help but let loose a quiet laugh. “You remembered.”

King Arthur’s eyes gleamed. “I never forgot.”

Somehow, the brief switch back to the informal ‘I’ made everything feel better, and as the newly-knighted Sir Lancelot kissed his king’s gauntlet in a pledge of fealty, he took comfort in knowing that, even if everything did change, it wouldn’t happen overnight. Arthur was still his friend, and even if they did end up finding themselves more as sovereign and loyal knight, well… perhaps he didn’t mind as much as he thought he would.

_All hail, King Arthur. Long live my king._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that feeling when your friend starts listing all the things they think are awesome and cool about you and you have no idea how to respond to the praise so you kinda panic in a flustered way? Lancelot knows that feeling.
> 
> Edit 4/20/20: NOW THERE'S ART! https://blackie-draws-sonic.tumblr.com/post/615959847299579904/this-art-piece-is-for-the-author-of-a-fanfiction


	6. Chapter 6

Being king was everything Arthur had hoped and feared it would be like, and somehow much, much more. Given his youth and lack of training in court affairs and manners, he was given a lot of leeway by his advisors and representatives, but even that didn’t manage to remove the stresses and pressures of governance.

At first, it was almost fun; it was a challenge, though not the kind he was used to, yet as the months dragged on by, Arthur found himself figuring things out, and the work became tedious instead of challenging, and still every bit as stressful. The rebellious young king still had some freedoms ー he was allowed to train with the other knights, and he was allowed to join quests if he deemed it imperative that he go along. With the excuse of ‘choosing the best knights means to observe them in action myself’, he often found himself leaving Camelot to clear his head and soak in as much adventure as he still could.

Perhaps this was why Lancelot remained his only knight; the more people he promoted, the less excuses he would have to go off and do his own thing. It certainly didn’t make any of the knights-in-training happy, and accusations of favoring Lancelot ran rampant, and Arthur could hardly deny them. Lancelot was his best friend in that giant castle, and had been his comrade in arms for years. It was impossible to not have some sort of bias toward him, in the same way that Arthur preferred the armor made by his brother than by any other celebrated blacksmith, or how he trusted the advice and opinions of his parents more than the court-appointed advisors.

“May I speak plainly, Sire?”

But if there was one thing that absolutely nobody could contest, it was that Lancelot took his knighthood very, very seriously.

“Hm? Go ahead.”

“You should appoint at least one more knight.”

Arthur groaned, lolling his head back so far that his crown nearly fell from his head. Gripping it with one hand as he sat back up, he replied, “Father says that if I give an inch, people will take a mile. If I knight one of them, they’ll start asking why I won’t knight the others.”

“Then knight the others.”

Arthur rubbed at his temples. “We’ve been over this, you know why I can’t do that.”

“All I see is that nothing has changed, and nothing will get better the longer you leave this be.”

Arthur remained silent for a long time. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“Perhaps you should have appointed me as an advisor instead.”

“And lose my best knight?” Arthur gasped in mock horror. “Never!”

“Your _only_ knight,” Lancelot returned, but even with his face hidden below his visor and his deadpan ringing dry in the air, Arthur knew him well enough to tell when he was speaking in good humor.

“Heh. I suppose I still have a lot to learn about doing the right thing, huh?”

It was Lancelot’s turn to stay quiet, and Arthur’s gut clenched as he realized that he had maybe revealed a bit too much. He wasn’t supposed to be confused and lost and scared. He was King Arthur, the Knight of the Wind, and the one who strived to do what he ought. That was who he was supposed to be, who he needed to be, not a frightened teenager, averse to change and clinging on to whatever he could salvage from his old life.

Sometimes, Arthur wondered if Caliburn hadn’t made a big mistake in choosing him.

“Perhaps…” came the sudden reply, and Arthur was taken aback by the sudden gentleness in Lancelot’s voice, “...you could hold a tournament for all the hopeful knights? And the top four or five will be knighted. That would appease most of them.”

Arthur’s eyes widened and a wave of relief washed over him. “That’s brilliant! And we could have different types of challenges, to find the best one at speed, at jousting, swordplay, strength…” It was all beginning to click into place, and he felt the most at ease as he had in months. “Sir Lancelot, where would I be without you?”

“Killed by a dragon, I presume, Your Majesty.”

Arthur laughed, and the two boys started planning the tournament in earnest.

* * *

Arthur sucked in a breath as he saw his senior advisor turn the corner. He had rehearsed his speech endlessly to Lancelot, and then to Caliburn once his friend had gone to sleep. He knew that if this tournament was to be held, he would need the approval of the majority of his court. He cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and strode toward the large owl.

“Good morning, Lady Longclaw,” he greeted as politely as he could muster.

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” she responded in turn, eyes narrowed in mild suspicion as she bowed her head to him. “What luck that I should find you here, for there is someone I wanted you to meet today.”

Arthur bit back his protest; as much as he wanted to get the tournament idea out there and done with, it seemed as though it would have to wait. Instead, his eyes wandered and he noticed the hem of someone’s dress training on the floor behind his advisor. He had been so preoccupied that he hadn’t noticed that she wasn’t alone.

A young human with long violet hair stepped out from behind the large owl, her head craned forward in a sign of respect. Her robes were long and strange, and her ears were pointed. Arthur had never seen a human with features such as this one.

“King Arthur, this is Lady Merlina. Her grandfather was the royal wizard for the former king, and she has requested to take his place as your aide in magical affairs.”

Merlina lifted her head and looked nervously at him. She seemed so young and out of sorts, but bound to a duty that she couldn’t, and wouldn’t, shake. A feeling that Arthur understood all too well.

He gave her a warm smile. “Lady Merlina, it would be an honor to have you at our court.”

As Merlina smiled, Longclaw frowned. “You do not wish to see her capabilities before appointing her so quickly? You mustn’t trust quite so easily.”

Arthur’s heart sank. His impulsiveness was proving to hinder his credibility, and his creed of ‘doing the right thing’ hardly helped matters. Thankfully, it only took him a moment to think of a response.

“We would have thought that, upon bringing her to our court and with your confident introduction, that you think highly of her. We trust your judgement, Lady Longclaw, as we should from someone of your status.”

Longclaw’s eyes softened just a little, and Arthur knew that he had won this round. His court manners _were_ improving after all!

“Be that as that may, you do need to take more caution with the information you are given,” Longclaw continued, keeping true to her role as advisor and mentor.

“We understand and thank you for your guidance,” Arthur returned, and she seemed satisfied. “There is another matter we would like to discuss with you. Lady Merlina, perhaps you might also have some consideration to the matter. We would like to hold a tournament…”

* * *

The motion passed, and a week later, King Arthur was watching his hopeful knights clash in all kinds of competitions. In some, there were clear winners, such as Lamorak’s jousting prowess and Kay’s sheer size and strength dominating the hand-to-hand combat. Others were closer calls, but in the end, Tristan proved to be the most agile of the bunch with her acrobatic abilities, Bedivere had an edge to swordfighting with his rather remarkable ability to disappear from view, and Geraint proved to be the most ruthless when it came to the final test: holding their own against the Ultimate Knight himself, Sir Lancelot.

Once the five had made it into his throne room, Arthur made good on his word of knighting them on the spot. Caliburn descended on five sets of shoulders as King Arthur named each and every one with their own title and moniker.

“Sir Lamorak, the Rider Knight.”

The hawk raised his head, young and cocky as he smirked up at the king.

“Sir Kay, Knight of the Thunder.”

It was a challenge to reach the shoulders of the massive albatross, even with him kneeling down.

“Sir Bedivere, the Silent Knight.”

The chameleon looked up at him, solemn and serious, ready to prove that he was worth his new title.

“Sir Tristan, Knight of the Spirit.”

The chipmunk lifted her head, brushing her auburn hair from her face as she did so.

“Sir Geraint, the Phantom Knight.”

The jackal regarded him coldly, still tense from his battle and from months of waiting for his knighthood.

At Arthur’s command, the five rose and joined Lancelot. Despite the residual frustration and tension from the timely ordeal it took to achieve their status, there was a palpable excitement amongst the new knights, and with time, Arthur was sure they would work out all the rough edges in their working relationship.

Hopefully, given time, they would also be gladly bound to his updated code of chivalry, which he still insisted should have been the definition from the start.

Looking at his growing ranks, Arthur felt peace. Somehow, knowing that he had overcome this obstacle made being king seem much more manageable now. Problems would come for him to solve, but Arthur was beginning to realize that, though power came with responsibility, his power allowed him to tackle these responsibilities head-on, and with the aid of his friends and mentors, he could manage it.

He could be a good king.

* * *

It took all of two hours for the first problem to arise.

“Why must I sit so far from the king?” Sir Lamorak demanded.

“You insisted on sitting next to that giant oaf,” Sir Geraint scoffed back, pointing at Sir Kay. “He would block the view of the king if he were to sit on the side.”

“You dare say that again? I’ll throw you through the wall and then you’ll really be a phantom!”

As Lamorak tried to restrain Kay and Bedivere tried to calm him from across the corner of the table, Geraint turned to Tristan. “Swap places with me. I want to sit next to the king.”

“If by that you mean that you wish to sit across from Sir Lancelot so you may threaten him more efficiently, then I must decline.” Sir Tristan looked tired and fed up already. Even Sir Lancelot looked on edge.

They hadn’t even started the meeting yet.

Arthur grit his teeth. Of all things, he hadn’t counted on _the shape of the meeting table_ to have been an issue, and yet he was starting to see that almost anything could be a problem if people tried hard enough. He had to admit, Sirs Lamorak and Kay were considerably further away thanks to the long, rectangular table, though he could see their faces much more clearly than, say, Sirs Geraint and Bedivere, who were sideways and hidden by Sirs Lancelot and Tristan.

“Perhaps we could shift seats every meeting?” Arthur suggested, an idea to which Tristan and Bedivere seemed satisfied, until Sir Geraint let out a bark of laughter.

“That would be a _fantastic_ idea, Sire, but unfortunately I think Sir Lancelot would object to being anywhere but right next to you.”

Lancelot stiffened in his seat, turning his head towards Geraint, and though his visor remained down, Arthur could almost see the glare he was shooting him cutting through the air. Sir Lamorak hardly made things better as he began to laugh as well, and Arthur couldn’t take it anymore.

“If you wanted to be knights so badly, maybe you should start acting like ones!”

There was a long, intense silence.

“E-Excuse me? Your Majesty?”

A soft voice filtered through the air, and Arthur turned to see Merlina in the doorway, looking nervous. He fought back his urge to groan in shame; she had undoubtedly heard his fruitless outburst.

“Good day, Lady Merlina. Do you require something from us?”

The wizard fiddled with her staff, eyes flickering back and forth over the gathering of young knights as she approached. “I apologize, but I overheard your, erm… _predicament_ , and I believe I might have a solution.”

“Anything would be a great help, Lady Merlina,” Arthur said, exhaustion and gratitude permeating his voice.

“I thought, if the layout of the table is the issue, then perhaps… perhaps the table should be changed?”

“The table,” Arthur echoed, looking down in front of him. “Change it… with magic? Perhaps into a circle, so everyone can face each other?”

Merlina’s mouth shifted into a small smile. “I can do that, if you wish. I still haven’t proven my abilities to you.”

Arthur perked up and stepped away from the table. “Then by all means, we would appreciate a demonstration.”

At his cue, the other knights stepped away from the table, looking at Merlina with anything from guarded to open curiosity. Merlina, to her credit, didn’t falter under the pressure of an audience, but clasped her staff in both hands as she chanted a series of words Arthur couldn’t decipher. Her staff started glistening, the magic rising and rising until it glowed with a brilliant aura, and once Merlina swung it purposefully towards the table, it shot out like a beacon, connecting with its target and engulfing it completely in a flash of bright light. Arthur had to shield his eyes; he had never seen magic so dramatic before. It was nothing like Lady Nimue’s subtle spells, but then again, Arthur wasn’t the most well-versed in magic types.

However, once the light faded and the table before him was now round, he knew he had no room to complain.

“Well done,” he praised, and Merlina’s smile only grew. “With that demonstration, we are happy to appoint you to the court as the Royal Wizard.”

“It’s an honor, Your Majesty!” Merlina gave a grateful bow. “I won’t let you down!”

Arthur grinned at her, and then turned back to his knights, who were all looking from the young wizard to the table before them. “Welcome, new knights,” he announced, inspired by the flair and bravado of Merlina’s magic, “to the Round Table.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing says 'family' like everyone arguing about seating arrangements, amirite?
> 
> (Started losing steam at the end so probably not my best chapter, but I hope you like it anyways! I also had no idea what to rename Longclaw, since I couldn't find any royal advisors when I looked up Arthurian characters, so Longclaw she shall remain.)
> 
> New knights:
> 
> Sir Lamorak - Jet the Hawk, as seen in SatBK. Since Extreme Gear doesn't exist, I figure he'd be talented at horseback riding and jousting (just like the Lamorak from Arthurian legends!), hence the Rider Knight. (Also because Sonic Riders, because I love a good reference.)
> 
> Sir Kay - Storm the Albatross. Said to be very tall and bad-tempered, but still loyal overall. (Also Arthur's foster brother in the legends, but that's not the case in this story.) Knight of the Thunder is a reference to the name 'Storm' and also the larger than life and loud kind of power he has.
> 
> Sir Tristan - Sally Acorn. I'm not very familiar with her story in the comics, but Tristan's story ends up breaking off of Arthur's and becoming his own when he falls in love with Yseult and runs off with her. It kind of parallels how Sally's story is separate from the Sonic games canon, and I think Sally's story has a romantic undertone between her and Nicole? Knight of the Spirit references both her personality as I understand it, and the fact that Nicole in this case would likely be a ghost since AI wouldn't exist.
> 
> Sir Bedivere - Espio the Chameleon. One of Arthur's longest-lasting knights, and the one who returned Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake. I don't have much reasoning here, aside from Bedivere would have to be an excellent fighter and survivor, and a loyal follower. Silent Knight is not only a pun, but a nod to Espio's stealthy ninja abilities.
> 
> Sir Geraint - Infinite the Jackal. Geraint was called lazy by his wife and to get back at her he accused her of cheating on him and then put her through a bunch of trials to make her prove her faithfulness to him, and if that isn't Infinite levels of petty then I don't know what is. Phantom Knight is a reference to the Phantom Ruby, and the fact that he would be a similar type of fighter as Bedivere/Espio, appearing and disappearing and attacking from all sides.


	7. Chapter 7

Castle Camelot, the hub of the sovereign of Avalon and his followers. Never before had there been such a young, yet accomplished king; his feats of bravery, chivalry, and kindness were passed from town to town, village to village, reaching neighboring kingdoms, and though the details varied from story to story, a few remained constant: the king himself was faster than the wind, and all his knights were celebrated youths just as he was, with impressive titles to match. It was the dream of many young, brave adventurers to prove themselves and join the Round Table.

Hence the bold echidna out by the drawbridge demanding an audience posthaste.

Gawain was the pride of his village, boasting unparalleled strength and fighting ability, but his biggest feat was clenched in his hands; it was his weapon that would give him the edge he needed to join the Round Table.

As he waited outside, fiddling with his blades in impatience, he tried to remember all he had been taught about court manners from his sister, Gareth. He had never ventured outside his village before, and according to her, the customs in Avalon were much different than where they grew up. People were less truthful and genuine, hiding their thoughts and feelings behind both politeness and deceit. She had warned him to stay cautious, and to not believe everything he was told, and most importantly, to keep his emotions in line 一 to make an angry outburst, or to offend anyone of a high rank would certainly ruin his chances at greatness.

All the same, Gawain was certain that he could impress the young king with what he was capable of. All he needed was an audience… if only the guards would _lower the drawbridge_. The guards, despite claiming they had sent a messenger, hadn’t moved from their posts, and bold Gawain, after remembering his sister’s advice about the deceitful nature of the people of Avalon, was now certain that no such messenger existed.

He decided to take matters into his own hands.

Firmly sheathing his weapons to his waist, he gripped his hands to the outer wall of the castle and, using his incredible strength and dexterity, began scaling the wall, much to the shock and anger of the guards. Gawain was a quick climber, and despite the sheer height of the wall, he had no fear. If anything, this would prove to the king that he needed better guards, and who better to guard him than a brand-new knight?

_The Guardian Knight._ Gawain smirked to himself as he remembered the title he had come up with for himself. Much like the heavy blades at his waist, he hoped it would impress the king once he got his attention.

Speaking of attention…

The first rock just missed him by a hair, brushing against his arm as it fell down to the ground below. Gawain squinted upwards, adjusting his eyes to the sun above, and could just barely make out the sight of the guards dropping stones in an effort to stop him from breaching the wall.

_Fools_.

Even with the handicap of the sun in his eyes, his hearing helped him determine where the next rock was aimed, and Gawain deftly dodged stone after stone aimed at him and continued his hike upwards, much to the guards’ chagrin. Unfortunately, their response was to toss yet more rocks, and the higher up Gawain was, the harder it was to dodge them.

He had made it about three-quarters of the way up before one collided with his hand, making him lose his grip and plummet down… at least until he showed off yet another ability of his. Gawain could have laughed at the shift from cries of terror to cries of astonishment as he glided through the air, regaining his equilibrium and reattaching himself to the wall to continue his climb. He figured they would run out of rocks eventually, and he was prepared to go through this trial for as long as necessary if it meant he could have an audience with the king.

“What’s going on here?”

Both Gawain and the guards paused at the new voice. Squinting against the sun again, Gawain could just barely make out a new figure, joining the rest.

_Hm. Perhaps a messenger truly had been sent, after all._

Gawain continued his climb as the guards squabbled to explain the situation to the newcomer, who interrupted them with an impatient, “I don’t care anymore. His Majesty accepts the presence of the visitor.”

Gawain scaled the last stretch of wall and heaved himself over the top. “Good to hear.” He looked from the frazzled guards to the newcomer, a hawk in full armor, who pushed up his visor.

“Did you climb up here?”

“Yes. I was waiting very long for an answer and decided to take matters into my own hands.”

The hawk glanced at the guards, taking note of the pile of stones at their feet with obvious dents in the supply. “And they threw rocks at you?”

“It was nothing I couldn’t handle.”

The hawk blinked before grinning from ear to ear. “Oh, I can’t _wait_ to see what he thinks of this!”

* * *

As the knight 一 Sir Lamorak, the Rider Knight himself! 一 relayed the story to King Arthur, unfortunately lacking the exciting details that truly highlighted the impressive nature of his feat, Gawain kept low at a kneel, glancing up at the famed ruler. He _was_ young, perhaps younger than Gawain himself, and despite the hawk’s lackluster storytelling abilities, the king seemed impressed.

“And you did not fall?” he asked.

“Only once,” Gawain admitted, “but not far.”

The king sat back in his throne, looking suitably amazed. Gawain was pleased; he was the pride of his village for a reason, after all!

“And wherefore did you wish so badly for an audience with us?”

Gawain raised his head, eyes burning in eagerness. He had waited so long for this. “My name is Gawain, the Guardian Knight of Angel Village, and I wish to prove my worth and join the Round Table!”

There was a small stretch of silence before one of the knights quietly groaned and muttered, “Not this _again_.”

Gawain bristled, but held his tongue, remembering Gareth’s advice, and barrelled onward. “Therefore, I would like to challenge Sir Lancelot to a duel to show you just what I can do!”

That caught the attention of the king and the knight by his side. There were more murmurs from the gallery as Gawain stood up, unsheathing his blades and pointing the left one at the Ultimate Knight himself.

“You are the wielder of the sacred sword Arondight, are you not?” he challenged.

“And what if I am?”

“Perhaps, then, you will recognize _these!_ ” Gawain spun his blades around with practiced precision, though it was met with a scoff from the onlookers.

“If you’re boasting about dual wielding, I’m afraid both Sir Lamorak and Sir Tristan have beaten you to the punch,” came a particularly sardonic remark from one of the knights, much to Gawain’s annoyance. He didn’t come so far to be made a fool of!

“Are you truly so simple that you do not recognize Galatine?” he snapped, and that was enough to gain him Lancelot’s full attention.

“You, too, have a sacred sword at your disposal?”

The other knights fell silent as Gawain looked triumphantly up at the throne. Sir Lancelot looked over at King Arthur, who gave him a single nod, before facing Gawain once more.

“On behalf of my king, I accept your challenge!”

That was all Gawain wanted to hear.

* * *

He had heard about Sir Lancelot, the Ultimate Knight, and of his remarkable fighting abilities. Gawain was the greatest fighter of his village, the strongest one he knew, yet as he started swinging at Lancelot and began to get a feel for how he fought, he realized that all the rumors and legends he had heard about the knight were entirely true.

He was an absolute _beast_ in battle.

But Gawain refused to falter; he had gotten so far, and he would be damned before he let himself give in. He swore to himself that he would be a knight before the day was over, or die trying.

Lancelot was fast, and strong, but once Gawain had locked him in to close combat, he started to gain the advantage. Not only was Gawain blessedly stronger, but he found yet another advantage in his weapon; whenever Lancelot parried or blocked a blow from one blade, he left himself open to a strike from the other. Though not the quickest to deal blows, Gawain was certain that he had found the perfect way to defeat the legendary knight…

...until a sudden strike to the chest sent him flying across the room.

Righting himself in the air and catching himself on a wall, Gawain once more demonstrated his climbing prowess as he repositioned himself, taking careful aim before tossing one of Galatine’s blades like a boomerang. Lancelot gripped Arondight and knocked the weapon to the side, where it buried itself into another wall.

Gawain shot off of the wall he clung to, gliding through the air until he reached his missing blade, and freed it from the wall, turning to aim at Lancelot once more. He was grateful for the chance to demonstrate his ranged combat abilities as he threw his other blade with terrifying precision at Lancelot’s head.

One more deflection. One more glide. The mighty echidna was prepared to do this all night if he had to.

“Chaos…”

He felt it in the air before he saw it; Sir Lancelot was floating, a dark aura surrounding him, and Gawain dropped to the ground, bracing himself with both blades of Galatine crossed before him in an X.

“...Punishment!”

It was the strangest sensation 一 Sir Lancelot was moving faster than Gawain could comprehend, yet he also felt like he himself was moving _slower_ than usual. As the blast and following shockwave impacted against him, Gawain was knocked off his feet, too stunned to recover as he had done before. His head was spinning, his ears were ringing, and the moment he tried to push up from the floor he felt as though the world was tilting so strongly that he would fall again.

Just what _was_ that? Just how remarkably powerful was Sir Lancelot?

...Had he truly just **_failed_**?

If he wasn’t so out of sorts, Gawain would have punched the ground. Instead, he did his best to rise to his feet, his blurry vision making out the shape of Lancelot as he addressed the other knights and the king. Gawain’s ears, still ringing from the attack, only made out the end of his speech.

“...so powerful, then I would recommend him to our ranks.”

_...What?_

“A recommendation from you is more than enough for me,” the king replied, his formal tone somehow gone as he bantered with his knight. “Not to mention, I was watching the fight. He kept you on your toes, didn’t he?”

Sir Lancelot only huffed in response before retaking his place by the king’s right side.

As King Arthur turned back to Gawain, his posture and demeanor changed back into something regal. “We have made our decision,” he announced, beckoning Gawain forward. The red warrior shuffled forward, still recovering from the blow, but managed to kneel before the king once more without tripping and falling.

“We acknowledge your power, your daring, and your dedication, and with the praise of our most powerful knight, we would be remiss in refusing you.”

Gawain’s heart, already pounding from the adrenaline of battle, stuttered at the recognition. It was really happening. Finally, after so many years of training, of seeking out his chosen weapon, of guarding his village until he was celebrated by his elders as their champion… finally he had found himself in a larger piece of the puzzle.

He felt the weight of Caliburn, the third sacred sword, descend upon him, and he forced himself to remain calm.

“Sir Gawain, the Guardian Knight, we welcome you to the Round Table.”

_He really, truly did it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gawain is oddly difficult to write, which is a shame, because he's dramatic and great. Then again I might have also shot myself in the foot with this chapter because writing action is far from my strong suit.
> 
> All the same, hope this was still a fun read!


	8. Chapter 8

“Smithy? I have another order for you.”

The fox looked up from his work and groaned. “Again? I just finished the last two! Did someone get into an accident?”

“I’m afraid not.” Arthur closed the door behind him and slumped into one of his brother’s spare chairs. He fiddled with his cape, feeling the weight of expectation leave him, even if only for a moment. Smithy’s workshop was a safe haven, far from the pressures and rules of being king. “Another new knight.” He paused to let his brother groan before continuing. “At least as big as Sir Kay.” That earned him an even louder groan.

“Arthur, I appreciate all the work and credit you give me, but at this rate I’m going to drown in projects.”

“Odd, I thought that was your dream,” Arthur joked, to which Smithy glared silently at him, having no retort.

“Fine, send… him? Her?”

“Him,” Arthur confirmed. “Sir Bors.” At Smithy’s encouraging wave of the hand, he added, “the Impact Knight.”

“The Round Table must be getting crowded by now,” Smithy remarked, heading back to his workbench, where an array of daggers lay in wait. Arthur recognized the set as Sir Bedivere's; it seemed as though Smithy’s work was never over, with weapons and armor constantly being repaired or ordered.

“There’s…” Arthur took a moment to count on his fingers. “...eleven, including myself.”

Smithy let out a whistle. “You’ve come a long way from just you and Lancelot.”

“It’s been three years now,” Arthur pointed out, locking his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair. “If it were still only the two of us, things would be much more difficult.”

“So you find it easier to lead your knights?” Smithy asked in between striking the dagger blades with his hammer, working out the ripples in the metal.

Arthur hummed. “I suppose so. I’m finally getting used to the whole… king thing.”

“You’re growing up, brother,” Smithy agreed, taking out his sharpening stone and setting it on his workbench. "That's good, and you should be proud of yourself."

Arthur didn’t reply. _Growing up…_ He was eighteen, now. A man. He had led his land for three confusing, stressful years, and yet he hadn’t experienced the true terrors that came with governance. He hadn’t experienced revolt, or war, or political alliances. He hadn’t had to make any particularly difficult decisions yet, ones that determined the lives of many.

He knew it was only a matter of time.

Fear gripped him suddenly like a vice and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe. This was nothing new; fear often crept up on him and strangled him during the night, or when he found himself with some down time, yet pondered his life instead of taking the time to relax. These were the times when reality caught up with him and whispered all the terrible ‘what-if’s of the world until Arthur thought he might collapse from the weight of it all.

He couldn’t stay still. Not when everything was building up again.

He stood up and headed toward the door; he hated to cut short his visit to his favorite blacksmith, but the last thing he wanted was to worry his brother. “I’m going for a run,” he said, sending Smithy a wave over his shoulder. “I’ll visit again soon.”

The fox looked up from his work, startled by the sudden exit, but waved back. “Promise?”

Arthur shot him a wide grin, trying to stifle the anxiety burning in his gut. “I promise.”

* * *

A minor emergency cut Arthur’s run short; Merlina had materialized before him, bearing a message from Longclaw about disturbances by bandits in some smaller towns close by. Arthur ended up at the head of the Round Table, briefing his knights and setting out a plan of action.

“This town here is the furthest, by the Cauldron in the Outlands,” he started, tapping the map in the center of the table. “To get there as soon as possible, we need some talented horsemen, so I’ll be leaving that area to Sirs Lamorak and Kay. Sirs Bors and Bedivere, I’ll leave the Titanic Plain to you. If you think you might need any more assistance, then take Sir Geraint with you, but we would do well to keep a few more men back here in case the threat spreads en route. Sir Tristan, take Sirs Gaheris and Gareth to the Shrouded Forest; they could use some real battle experience and some good leadership. Everyone else, stay back in case the threat finds its way to a new area; we might need to send out a fourth party at any moment.”

At his dismissal, ten heads bowed to him before splitting up and scattering. As Arthur watched Sir Geraint slink off on his own, and Sir Gawain wish his siblings well on their mission, he was well aware that Sir Lancelot hadn’t moved from the Round Table.

“Does something trouble you?” he asked, but his knight shook his head.

“No, Sire. Rather, I have a request of you.”

A request? That was new.

“What is it?”

Lancelot shifted his weight from one foot to the other, something he typically did when he felt embarrassed or ashamed. Arthur wasn’t surprised 一 Lancelot was loath to ask any favors, least of all from him.

“You might recall that almost two years ago, my grandfather died…”

Arthur nodded, keeping quiet so Lancelot could garner the nerve to continue.

“...you’ll remember that I took a leave to help my sister with the burial preparations. That… that was the last time I’ve seen her.”

Lancelot fell silent, but Arthur could guess where this was going. “You wish to visit her again?”

The knight gave a single nod, averting his gaze. “I know it’s hardly the best time to be requesting this, given the rising crime rate, but she has been hoping to see me for a while. She says there is something important she needs to tell me, but she only wishes to do it in person.”

Arthur chuckled. “Lancelot, do you really think I would deny you the chance to see your family?”

The knight shifted again, looking uncomfortable. “Corbenic is very far away, I would need at least a week-”

“Then take a week.” Lancelot’s head snapped back toward him, and Arthur could imagine the stunned look underneath his friend’s visor, before it shifted back into something neutral. “I mean it, Lancelot, you’ve more than earned some time off, and I have nine other knights. We’ll survive for a week without you.”

He watched his friend hesitate. “...If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. Go write a letter tonight and let me know when you’re to leave.”

“...Thank you, Sire.”

Arthur cocked his head. “Why do you talk to me like that? We’re alone, you can drop the formalities.”

Lancelot heaved a silent sigh. “Perhaps that was fine when we were children, but we are men, now. Perhaps… Perhaps I ought to stop treating you so familiarly. It’s unbecoming of me, as a knight and as a subject.”

The way he said it, with such a defeated sense of resignation, left a bitter taste in Arthur’s mouth.

“Who’s been telling you that?”

“No one,” Lancelot replied firmly, and Arthur could tell that it was only half-true.

“Then whose opinion are you so concerned about?”

Lancelot bristled, and Arthur knew he had hit the nail on the head.

“Lancelot, I don’t know what the others have been telling you, but I need friends just as much as I need followers. You’ve been by my side since I was ten… I never want to be just a king to you.”

_Just a king…_ It sounded so **wrong**. To think that anyone who once looked at him with familiarity would see him as someone above them, someone unreachable and unapproachable, to imagine Smithy bowing down to him instead of hugging him in greeting, or to imagine his parents acting polite and refined instead of fussing over him was every bit as unthinkable as Lancelot no longer acknowledging their adventures that had bonded them so closely.

“Promise me,” he all but ordered, “that even if we do become more professional around each other, promise me that no matter what, you will still be my friend.”

He expected a struggle. He expected his friend’s stubbornness and sense of duty to come forth and mark a new rift between them, one that they would never be able to cross again. Arthur expected the world as he knew it to keep falling apart, piece by piece, as it had been for the last three years, ever since he ascended the throne.

But Lancelot’s response was immediate. “I promise.”

Arthur blinked in shock. “You… do?”

Lancelot looked away once more. “If it bothers you so much, what kind of knight would I be to refuse you?”

Lancelot was a proud man, not always able to say what he meant, but more often than not, Arthur could read him like a book. Neither of them wanted to bury the bond they had forged through countless trials and adventures and years together. Neither of them wanted something purely professional. Arthur may have wanted to strive to do the right thing, but to him, the right thing was never to become a cold, distant king who treated his knights as simple followers. Arthur believed in the power of close bonds and friendships, and if that meant appearing unprofessional or unworthy to some, then that was a price he was more than willing to pay.

“A lousy knight, I’d say.”

Lancelot scoffed and pushed up his visor, much to Arthur’s surprise. It was a rare sight to see his old friend unmasked.

“And forgive me for speaking so boldly, but you would be a lousy king if you weren’t to correct me when I forget the code I swore myself to on the day I became a knight. If I ever stray, you will push me back onto the right path, will you not?”

Arthur’s reply was just as immediate.

“I promise.”

That was the kind of ruler he always wanted to be, after all.

His friend's gaze softened almost imperceptibly. “Thank you, Arthur.”

Hearing his name, his true name, with no titles or formalities, lifted a weight from Arthur's shoulders that he was so used to feeling that he often forgot it was there. Camelot was such a rigid place, with so few comforts and so few people who were willing to see him for who he was, just a man who wanted adventure, who wanted unity among his people, who wanted prosperity and joy above power and wealth.

Within the castle walls, Lancelot, at the very least, still saw and understood that. Together, they would ensure that they stayed on the right path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came out sooner than I expected, but more than anything it's just an introspection for Arthur dealing with the pressures of growing up and being king, as well as a set-up for the next chapter, which will either come out quickly and all at once, or will take me ages because I'll be struggling to get it right.
> 
> Lancelot's going home to Corbenic, and it's not going to be the vacation he expected.
> 
> More new knights:
> 
> Sir Bors 一 Vector the Crocodile. Sir Bors was one of the three chaste knights of the grail. So why Vector? Because the other two knights of the grail are Percival and Galahad, and Team Sonic Racing groups the three together. He's the Impact Knight because it sums up his abilities quite well (punches, shockwaves, projectiles, etc.)
> 
> Sir Gareth 一 Tikal the Echidna. Mentioned last chapter as well, Gareth was one of Gawain's brothers and one of the most chivalrous knights, which fits Tikal's peaceful and kind nature well. Her moniker would likely be Sir Gareth, Knight of Aura.
> 
> Sir Gaheris 一 Mighty the Armadillo. Gaheris was another one of Gawain's siblings and often acted as his conscience. I don't know all that much about Mighty, but he seems to fit the bill. His title would be Sir Gaheris, the Peaceful Knight.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, this is the chapter where the T rating really comes into play.
> 
> Includes violence, blood, and death.

By horse, Corbenic was about a two day long journey. On foot, Lancelot was more than able to travel in about a day, but weighed down with travel essentials, it made more sense to ride over, stopping at an inn overnight before continuing his journey to see his sister, Elaine. Lancelot always felt a stab of guilt when he thought of his older sister; they had been so close as children, but once he had relocated to Camelot to start his training, they hadn’t been able to keep in touch as much. Elaine was less able to travel than he was, at first because of their aging grandfather, and then due to an illness that weakened her body and made it much easier for her to become terribly sick. It was safer for her in Corbenic, and though they kept in touch by letter, Lancelot couldn’t help but feel as though he had put a rift between them when he had left.

He had felt it when he had visited the last time, for their grandfather’s burial. Elaine had cried and hugged him, and they had grieved together and comforted each other, but the joined-at-the-hip closeness they had enjoyed in their youth was gone. Lancelot still loved his sister dearly, but there were times when he couldn’t help but feel as though he had abandoned her.

He was a knight, his primary duty was to his kingdom above all else, but it bothered him that it would come with the cost of his family.

Then again, the same went for most of the knights, save Gawain and his siblings. Lamorak nowadays constantly complained about missing the birth of his younger brother and still having not met him, and Arthur was facing accusations of nepotism for naming Smithy the royal blacksmith, with the intention to keep his workshop close to Camelot. Tristan, who was royalty from another kingdom entirely, always claimed that she was happy to be a knight, but no one could mistake the muffled sobs that came from her room whenever she got a letter from home. Every morning after, she would keep her visor lowered, to keep her reddened eyes from view.

Sometimes it felt very, very wrong, as though they were all trapped within roles that they weren’t supposed to take. They were all so young, but their lives already set in stone before them, with destinies they couldn’t shake.

Lancelot banished the thoughts from his head and kept leading his horse from the stable. These thoughts never helped him, and only served to put him further into conflict and unease. As he was fastening his belongings to his horse’s back, he heard a shuffling behind him.

“Are you leaving already?”

It was the innkeeper, a warm and friendly rabbit who held her young daughter tightly in her arms. Lancelot turned around to face her and gave a quick nod. “I’m afraid so. I don’t have much time to spare.”

“Then I’ll wish you safe travels,” she returned, shifting her grip on her baby. “If you don’t mind me asking, where are you headed? It’s been dangerous lately, with the rise of armed attacks.”

Apprehension pooled in Lancelot’s gut. “I’m heading to Corbenic.”

The rabbit’s eyes widened, and Lancelot’s unease turned quickly into panic.

“I heard tell that Astolat was the last town to be raided.”

_Astolat?! That was right next door to Corbenic!_

“When did you hear this?” Lancelot demanded, politeness disappearing in the wake of newfound terror.

“Last night, after you retired to your room.”

_No…_

**_No._ **

In a rush, Lancelot finished setting up his horse and climbed upon it, just barely remembering to thank the innkeeper for her advice and hospitality. As he set off, he heard her wish him luck in the distance.

His hands were shaking as he gripped the reins, urging his horse forward. All too late, he realized that he could have left the beast behind for an extra sum of money and made his way on foot, and he cursed himself for letting his fear rule him and cloud his judgement like a fool.

Corbenic was such a small town, and with a crime rate so low that the peacekeepers weren’t well armed or trained for a massive onslaught. If Corbenic were to be raided next, then… then… 

_Elaine…_

* * *

He didn’t see it well, nor could he hear it, but he could tell something was terribly wrong. Corbenic was in the distance, but there was a harsh, terrible aura clouding the air, so thick and oppressive that it almost choked him. Lancelot dropped from his horse, not giving a second thought to his belongings or to where the horse might end up; he was a knight, and his duty was to his kingdom, and that meant all people within it. He had to save them, every last one of them.

He hoped beyond hope that he wasn’t too late.

He charged into the town, faster than the blink of an eye, and all around him he could hear the sounds of fighting and smell the scent of blood. A feral snarl left his mouth as he jumped from raider to raider, slaying each and every one he could get his hands on. It was slower work than he would have liked, but he didn’t dare perform a Chaos Punishment, lest any civilians got caught in the crossfire. Rage and adrenaline fueled him as he rushed through the streets of his home, seeing horrific sights that he never wanted to see and hearing screams and cries that wouldn’t leave his ears no matter how hard he tried.

He was the Ultimate Knight, and he would protect his home, but even with his speed and strength, he was only one man against an army. The instant he struck one enemy down, another took his place, and before long they started to swarm around him, blocking his way out to save any more civilians.

Lancelot was running out of options.

As he swung Arondight, a flash of gold caught his eye, and he remembered the rings his mother had given him. He had an idea, a dangerous idea, and if it backfired it would fail spectacularly, but as it was right then, Lancelot knew he would run out of energy and stamina long before the battle was won. Between definitely losing and an uncertain outcome, there was no choice.

The first ring tumbled off his wrist and fell to the ground. The second ring was sliding off his hand when he felt the sharp impact of a blade slice upward against his chin, rising up and knocking his visor back. Lancelot tasted and smelled blood, and the pain burned forth a second later, white-hot and furious.

Lancelot saw red, and the rest of the battle went by in a blur as power exploded from his core, untamed and uncontrollable. He moved fast as lightning, the force of his very aura enough to push his attackers back, and when he finally came to again moments later, exhausted and drained, the streets were piled high with bodies and his hands were stained with blood, and whether it was his own or that of the others, he wasn’t entirely sure. His face felt as though it was on fire, a slash going up from his chin, through his lips and up to his left cheek. His hand reached up as if to touch it, but he stopped himself. Best not to put his hand on an open wound, especially with the sheer amount of people who would need to be taken to the clinic to be patched up.

His foot nudged against a piece of metal, and Lancelot realized that he was back where he began, with his mother’s rings under his feet. He picked them up and reattached them, wondering what he had managed to do in his fit of rage. Had he gotten them all? Had he hurt any townsfolk? The thought chilled him to the bone, and despite his exhaustion, he raced around the town, checking every street corner and listening out for any sounds of a struggle.

Nothing.

He hadn’t been able to save everyone, but he had been able to do his job. With a sigh of relief, Lancelot slumped against the wall of a dilapidated house, about ready to pass out…

...until he remembered his reason to visit and his eyes jolted open.

He hadn’t seen any sign of Elaine at all when he made his rounds.

Panic seized him once more as he rushed off in the direction of his childhood home, in spite of his injuries, in spite of his exhaustion, hoping with all his might that his sister had stayed hidden and safe during the raid. He wanted to find her, shaking and scared but alive and well, and he wanted her to fuss over him while she patched him up, calling him a fool and a hero, and to hug him close as she did when they were children. Lancelot hoped and prayed that she was safe.

_Please be safe please be safe please please please…_

Their home was in as bad a state as all the others, but as soon as Lancelot put his hand on the door and it gave way, he knew that the lock was broken. His mind went blank in terror as he pushed the door open and he saw the destroyed entryway.

_Please, Chaos,_ he wished with all his might, _please let her have escaped._

“Elaine?” he called out, just in case she was hiding, but there was no answer.

He walked through the debris; whoever had come inside had come with the intention to take absolutely anything of value. Things from paintings to doorknobs to the rugs on the floor had been stolen, but that was the least of Lancelot’s concerns.

“Elaine…?”

He rounded the corner, stepping slowly through the space, suffocated by the fear of the unknown, and by the fear of what he would find out. His body moved as though in slow motion, like fighting through a blizzard with every ounce of effort exerted only serving to make his head swim. Only the faintest glimmer of hope was keeping him upright.

He looked into the next room, saw a head of dirty blond hair on the ground, and felt the hope die.

_**“Elaine!”** _

He was by her side in an instant, grabbing her shoulders and turning her toward him, shuddering in panic and despair. Elaine’s eyes were glassy and unfocused, staring at something far beyond that Lancelot wouldn’t ever be able to see. Her clothes were covered in grime and dirt, and blood matted her hair on one side of her head. Her skin was ghostly pale, and even through his gloves, her body felt cold.

He was too late… He was too late…

A scream ripped from his throat, raw and unrestrained, painting the air with the sound of his anguish. He gathered up his sister’s body in his arms, trying desperately to wake her up, to reverse time, to bring her back, but she remained stiff and unresponsive, unyielding to his pleas. He tried and tried, unable to stop screaming until his voice gave out, but nothing he did would breathe life back into her.

He wasn't sure when he blacked out, but when next he woke, the moon was high in the sky, the stench of death permeated the air so thickly he thought he might choke, and a soft wailing echoed in his ears. At first, he thought he was making the noise himself, but his voice was still gone. His body was numb, muscles taut, unable to relax his grip on his sister's body, but the noise persisted until he couldn't take it anymore.

One by one, his fingers relaxed, and he set Elaine gently back onto the ground. With a delicate touch to both eyelids, he closed her eyes so that she might have been sleeping, if it weren't for the bloody stains and ghostly pallor. Lancelot stood to his feet and, like a zombie, followed the sound of the wailing.

The source was a wardrobe in Elaine's room. Lancelot put his hand on the door and, too drained to be cautious, swung it wide open.

In the dim light, he could make out pale gray quills and large, tearful eyes. A new unpleasant stench wafted upwards, knocking Lancelot out of his stupor. There was a child hidden in the wardrobe, in his sister’s room.

How did it get there?

Without thinking, Lancelot picked the child off of the ground and brought it into the light. The moonlight glinted dully off of dusty silver fur, and small limbs thrashed in his grasp until he held it correctly. A hedgehog, too young to speak, perhaps too young to walk on its own. Lancelot had no idea how it managed to take refuge in his sister’s house…

...unless it was always here to begin with?

He remembered with a jolt that Elaine had news for him, news that she wanted to tell him in person. As he looked at the frightened baby, a terrible possibility occurred to him.

_Are you hers?_ he wanted to ask. _Are you Elaine’s child?_

He knew that neither Elaine, nor the baby would be able to answer him, but what other explanation could there be?

Lancelot’s breaths came in short, heavy gasps as the possibility crashed down on him. Elaine had wanted him to meet her baby. Elaine had a baby, and now she was… she was… 

Lancelot held the child firmly to his chest as the tears finally, finally fell.

* * *

The week had passed before he knew it. A trip around the town confirmed that the child belonged to no one else alive, and Elaine’s neighbors had met the same fate as his sister. No one could confirm nor deny the baby’s origins, so all Lancelot could do now was to choose.

As if there was a choice to begin with… 

He had buried Elaine himself, not in the churchyard with the mass of fresh graves, but a while away, on a hill by a tree where they had spent many days in their youth. He could still see her, young and healthy, blond hair billowing in the wind as she tried to climb all the way to the top of the tree.

Now, she was stuck at the bottom, by the roots.

Lancelot remembered something his sister had told him when they had buried their grandfather. She talked about how he would become one with the ground, and everything that grew from it. One ray of sunlight on an otherwise dreadful day.

_Elaine, I hope that one day, you’ll find yourself at the top of that tree._

Lancelot packed up his things and attached it to his horse, whom he had thankfully found not very far away from Corbenic. His time off was coming to a close, and though part of him wanted to stay and help rebuild his childhood home, he knew that wasn’t where he was supposed to be. He had saved Corbenic to the best of his ability, but he would always be needed elsewhere. He couldn’t save Elaine, but he could save as many people as he could in her name.

He could look after her child.

_His_ child.

Lancelot lifted the young one onto the horse and kept it steady with one arm, while the other kept a strong grip on the reins. As Lancelot left Corbenic, he didn’t look back. There was nothing left for him there. Not anymore.

Lancelot decided to stop by the same inn on the way back. Perhaps the innkeeper had some advice for looking after a baby, or some hand-me-downs that she could spare for his new acquisition. The baby cooed and babbled as they rode, reaching out with tiny, clumsy hands for the reins, and despite everything, Lancelot felt a warmth stir in his heart. The child, so young, so innocent, was unmarred by the experience. Lancelot, meanwhile, had scars on his face, grief in his soul, and a memory that he would see in his nightmares for years to come. He wasn’t looking forward to explaining everything once he got back to Camelot, nor did he feel particularly ready to be going back to his duty. He didn’t feel ready to be a father on top of everything.

The child would never remember its mother, and Lancelot didn’t know if that was a blessing, or a curse. As the countryside blurred past them, and yet another town came into view, he figured that it might be both.

_I’ll protect this one, Elaine. I’ll make sure I won’t fail again. This I promise you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this is where I start taking a lot of liberties.
> 
> Maria Robotnik takes the stage as Elaine of Corbenic, Galahad's mother. In the original Arthurian legends, Elaine was a woman who fell in love with Lancelot, got him drunk, disguised herself as Guinevere, slept with him, and that's how Galahad happened. Obviously I chose to not go down that route, and went full Maria Robotnik instead. I really, really hate the 'female character dies for the male character's development' trope, but I couldn't think of any better way to go about this chapter. Maria deserves a better writer than myself.
> 
> Bonus cameo of Vanilla and Cream the Rabbit as the innkeeper and her daughter.
> 
> Next chapter: Little Galahad and Papa Lancelot visit Grandma Nimue.
> 
> THERE'S ART FOR THIS TOO! https://sasmev.tumblr.com/post/621023354481229824/lets-start-with-a-banger-then-tales-of-avalon


	10. Chapter 10

The first frosts of winter appeared on the trees on the day that Galahad turned six years old.

Lancelot hadn’t a clue when the child’s true birthday was, and he didn’t dare place it on the day he had found him, the anniversary of Elaine’s demise. The baby had been almost a year old when he had found him, and so he figured that a few months after would suffice to mark his first year. When winter’s cold fingers raked the ground, painting the greens and yellows and oranges of the world with white, he decided to celebrate. It was one good thing about winter, to counterbalance the cold and darkness and overall sense that the world around him was dying.

Galahad, such a lively child, brightened up his darkest months. Lancelot still couldn’t consider himself ready to be a father, still only twenty three years old himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret his decision, either.

“Father, look!”

_Father…_ still such a strange name to be called, yet coming from his son’s mouth, it sounded right.

“Look at me! I’m a knight, just like you!”

Indeed, his little son was dressed head to toe in miniature armor, crafted by Smithy. He raised his arms, punching the air, since Lancelot forbade him to handle a weapon yet. The chainmail and metal plates on his body clinked as they bumped against each other, and Lancelot had to commend Smithy once more for his excellent craftsmanship. He had made the pieces for Galahad, despite his seemingly unending workload, and hadn’t cut any corners when it came to the design, either. Smithy had a soft spot for his son, and Lancelot figured it had to do either with Galahad reminding the fox of Arthur as a child, or because his son was much the same as Smithy, having discovered and announced that he was a boy as soon as he realized that he wasn’t, in fact, Lancelot’s daughter.

Either way, both Lancelot and Galahad often found themselves in Smithy’s workshop, Galahad for the company and Lancelot for answers to any questions he had. Smithy had the patience of a saint when it came to the two of them, as far as Lancelot was concerned, and all he asked in return was the opportunity to examine Arondight and its blade that could never be dulled.

The blade hung at his hip, as it always did, and Lancelot caught his son staring at it, his hands twitching as they rose. He felt the magnetic pull as the sword started to tug against its restraints, but he gripped on to the weapon and cast a stern look down at Galahad.

“None of that. You know my sword is dangerous.”

Galahad pouted, lowering his hands, and the pull subsided. Lancelot sighed, walked over, and picked up his lively, eager, stubborn, naive and _incredibly powerful_ son off the ground. He still remembered the day he saw Galahad levitating and flinging objects around the room as he threw a tantrum, the day he realized that his son was, in his own way, just as powerful as he was.

“Father, how am I going to be a knight if I never get to use a sword?” his son asked, swinging his feet back and forth in the air, accidentally kicking Lancelot’s chestplate a few times as he did so.

“I did not hold my first practice sword until I was nine,” Lancelot responded, “yet I am the Ultimate Knight. You will pick it up in no time, but now you are too young to be handling weapons.”

“I want to be just like you!” Galahad insisted, eyes wide and pleading.

Eyes like those were a weapon on their own, Lancelot thought, and he counted himself lucky that he hadn’t succumbed to their power yet, unlike a few others he could name; he still hadn’t forgiven Sir Bors for giving his son a front row seat to his destructive sparring match with Sir Gawain.

“Then you’ll wait, as I did.” Ignoring his son’s crestfallen look 一 he wouldn’t be able to keep his guilt from piling up if he didn’t 一 he set Galahad back onto the ground. “Now get dressed. We must leave early if we’re to make it to Misty Lake for lunch.”

“I am dressed!” Galahad insisted. “I want Grandmother to know that one day, I’ll be a knight, too!”

It was all Galahad talked about these days; becoming a knight, just like his father, how much he admired him and looked up to him, how he wanted to save people just like him. Galahad thought his father a hero, the ideal person to be, and made no effort to hide how badly he wanted to follow in his footsteps.

Lancelot would be a liar if he ever said that it didn’t touch him greatly.

It was the boy’s birthday. He would let him wear his armor and play the role of a knight.

It was worth it to see those golden eyes light up, and that brilliant smile, melting away the first touches of winter on the world.

* * *

“Father?”

“Yes?”

“What’s it like, being the greatest knight in the world?”

Lancelot resisted the urge to correct his son, to tell him that he was far from the greatest knight in the world, not when he still felt all his failures like a row of scars on his heart, not when he still closed his eyes and saw his sister’s pale, gaunt face, not when his turmoil sometimes felt too much to bear and he wondered how he still managed to stand on his feet when the idea of slipping into oblivion sounded so much easier…

But then he would see his son, running, flying, and laughing. He would go to Smithy’s and see the young fox, now a man as well, thriving despite the mountain of work in front of him. He would go to the Round Table and see his peers, all looking at each other with varying degrees of respect, and they would all look to their king, their leader, with utmost devotion.

It was this sacred devotion to King Arthur and to Galahad that had kept him alive and sane for the past several years.

“It’s not easy,” he finally answered, glancing down at his son, who was staring up at him, eyes wide and curious. “To be a knight, you have to be more than just a brave soul who can fight when he needs to… though it certainly helps. You must remember that the purpose of a knight is to their king and their kingdom. As a knight, your duty is to them first and foremost.”

Galahad nodded, and not a word slipped from his mouth as his eyes pleaded for his father to continue.

“As knights, we follow a strict code of chivalry. We understand who and what we fight for, and we pride ourselves on our honor and our potential. Our king in particular, King Arthur, has a specific code for us to follow. He believes that, in addition to all else, or even above all else, a knight is someone who chooses to do what’s right for those around them.”

It was that creed which gave the knights of the Round Table so much pride, and what inspired such faith in their leader. Lancelot knew, without a shred of doubt, that he would not be able to follow another ruler, much like how the knights of the previous order all retired once their king had passed.

“To be a knight is to be loyal. You must put the kingdom first, even at the expense of yourself. You must be willing to die for your kingdom.”

“Do you wish to die for Avalon?” Galahad asked, his grip on his father’s hand tightening in fright.

“I do not,” Lancelot assured him. “But should it happen… I accept it. That is my duty as a knight.”

Galahad was silent for a long time, and Lancelot wondered if he had scared the desire to be knighted out of him.

Part of him hoped he had.

“What was Mother like?”

This was a routine question, one that Lancelot was so used to answering that the response came from him without even a thought. “Your mother was one of the greatest people I’ll ever know. She was smart and kind and thoughtful, and she always did her best to make sure that those around her were happy.”

Sometimes, if he was feeling particularly inspired, he would share a story about Elaine to his son, an example of her warmth, of her generosity, of her quirkiness.

Today, however, he simply finished with, “She would have loved you a great deal. You’re much like her.”

Galahad didn’t respond, but he swung their linked hands back and forth as they continued their journey through the dead leaves and brittle grass.

* * *

Lancelot still took care to visit his mother when he could, but this was his first time bringing Galahad with him. Nimue had seen her grandson before, projecting her image across the land with magic. She had done so when the news of Elaine’s demise had reached her, and often after that to check on her son and grandchild.

Galahad’s feet started to drag once the lake came into view, and the child hid behind Lancelot’s legs, peering out as though suddenly overcome with shyness. Lancelot knew it was an act; Galahad often acted as though he was shy around new people or new areas, yet the second he was talked to, he burst forward, eager to make a new acquaintance.

“Knights never hide,” he reminded his son, and after a moment of reflection, Galahad sped out from behind him, rushing towards the lake, calling out to his grandmother. Lancelot sped up to reach his son by the lake’s shores, just as the mist parted and a woman approached them, feet making small ripples on the water’s surface.

His mother truly hadn’t aged a day since he last saw her.

“Are you Grandmother?” Galahad piped up beside him. The young hedgehog was looking at Nimue skeptically. “You don’t look old enough to be a grandmother…”

Lancelot grimaced, hidden beneath his visor. He really needed to go over manners with his son again…

Yet Nimue, to her credit, only laughed that gentle, soothing laugh of hers as she knelt down to look Galahad in the eyes. “That’s very kind of you to say, but it’s true. I am Lancelot’s mother, the Lady of the Lake.”

That seemed to satisfy Galahad, for his next action was to bounce on his toes and wave his hand wildly in greeting. “Hello Grandmother! I’m Galahad du Lac, and I’m going to be a great knight just like father one day!”

“You don’t say,” Nimue returned, looking him up and down. “You’re certainly dressed to be a knight.”

Galahad nodded eagerly, pointing proudly at his father. “Father says that being a knight means that you have to be a real hero to your people, and if he thinks that Avalon is a place to fight for, then I want to fight, too! I want to save everyone and be just as great as him!”

Lancelot was glad he hadn’t lifted his visor yet; his son had the remarkable ability to pierce through his tough exterior and touch his heart with just a few words. He fought the urge to smile as Nimue kept talking to her grandson, moved by how, despite his warnings, Galahad still admired him so much that he was willing to follow in his footsteps, no matter the danger… even if he hadn’t completely grasped the full meaning of being a knight yet.

“That’s very noble of you, Galahad,” Nimue replied, standing up. “And I agree. Avalon is a place worth protecting.” She looked over to Lancelot, eyes soft. “And your father is every bit the hero you think he is. I’m very proud of him.”

Lancelot’s first instinct was to protest, to bring up Elaine and Corbenic, how he hadn’t managed to save everyone as he should have. The image of Elaine’s body returned, wrapped up in his arms, cold and lifeless, and for a moment Lancelot was no longer with his mother and child, but trapped in that house, unable to move or scream. His body trembled with a weight he had never been able to shake since that dreadful night, and the smell, _that awful smell_ , overwhelmed his nose and everything was so, so dark…

Until his visor was lifted and suddenly he was back by the lake, blinking away the glare of the sun until he was looking into his mother’s green eyes.

She looked so incredibly _sad_.

Hands rose to his face, one resting against his right cheek while the other one traced the scar on the left side of his face, gentle as a breeze. It was right then that Lancelot was struck with the realization that his mother truly was timeless. Lancelot was aging, gaining scars and years while his mother remained pristine as a painting, and one day it would be Nimue holding his body, weeping softly as she lost yet another important person in her life.

Lancelot’s own dark hand covered his mother’s rose-colored one as he struggled with the concept. Nimue was so isolated, immortal and eternal. Lancelot had always thought his mother’s status as incredible, yet now it seemed equally a curse. Once upon a time, he had asked her if she was very lonely. Now, thirteen years later, he knew the answer without asking. His hand squeezed Nimue’s, an attempt at comfort and thanks, and was rewarded by a glimmer of warmth breaking up the immeasurable sadness in her eyes.

“I’m so proud of you, my Lancelot.”

Lancelot closed his eyes, leaning into his mother’s touch. “Thank you, Mother… For everything.”

For a moment, they stood still, unwilling to break the moment they had built, but Lancelot felt her shift her attention, and his eyes opened to see Galahad levitating right next to them, looking at them in impatient confusion.

“You can fly?” Nimue asked, surprise coloring her tone. Her and Lancelot’s hands fell and they stepped apart, turning their focus back to the young boy in their company.

“In a sense, yes,” Lancelot answered before Galahad could go into a long-winded explanation of everything he was capable of. “It seems as though Galahad can control objects with his thoughts, including his own body.”

“Psychokinesis?” Nimue looked at her grandson in astonishment before giving him a wide smile. “That’s a remarkable ability. You truly are your father’s son.”

Galahad beamed with pride at that, and once again, Lancelot fought the urge to smile. As Galahad demonstrated his powers at Nimue’s request, moving a heap of dead leaves in such a way that they would spell out his name on the ground, Lancelot thought back to what he had said about wanting to be just as good of a knight as he was.

_No, my dear Galahad, you won’t be as good a knight as I._

_You’ll be even greater._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who else here loves the family dynamics between these three? Who else here is shook by how Shadow is the ageless Ultimate Lifeform, but it's Nimue in the BK universe? Who else wants Lancelot to just get a hug?
> 
> Next chapter: The last planned major timeskip. Enter Percival, a quest for the final sacred sword, and Arthur has his suspicions about the sudden rise in paranormal foes.


	11. Chapter 11

The court had many names for them: the knights of the underworld, the shadow knights, the phantom knights... Lancelot called them ‘nuisances’. Geraint called them ‘target practice’. Peaceful Gaheris called them ‘monsters’.

Arthur just wanted to know how to keep them from coming back.

The threat of the supernatural beings was the highest he had ever faced; villages and towns all over the land were attacked at random, and his knights were running all over the map to keep them at bay. In his desperate need for more manpower, Arthur turned to Lancelot and, with his permission, expedited Galahad’s training and knighted him at the age of twelve. Yet even with the youth’s miraculous abilities, and the growing numbers in Arthur’s royal army, they were all still spread too thin. The pressure to act weighed on Arthur’s conscience, and he felt decades older than a man of thirty.

His job really didn’t get any easier with time. It was just easier to pretend it didn’t affect him as much as it did.

Who, after all, would follow or want a king that buckled under pressure and gave up?

* * *

When Lamorak approached him, tense and frowning, Arthur feared that something had gone horribly wrong.

“Sire, may I speak with you?”

“Of course,” Arthur replied smoothly, expertly hiding his unease. “What would you like to ask us?”

Lamorak gave him a blank stare and a sigh. “May I speak with you _plainly?_ ”

Arthur typically avoided acting so casual around all his knights, but Lamorak was one of those types that preferred to avoid all of the formalities. Arthur glanced around; most of the knights had left the meeting, save for Lancelot by the door who was speaking firmly to Galahad, who was nodding at everything he said.

“You may. What’s wrong, Lamorak? You look like you have some bad news to share.”

“You’re in luck. I don’t.” Lamorak fiddled with his visor, almost dropping it over his eyes but catching it in time with a grimace. “I might have another knight for you.”

Arthur was taken aback. “Then why do you look so troubled?” he urged.

“It’s my sister. She wants to join the Round Table.”

_Oh._ That explained it. Of course Lamorak would be concerned with his sibling joining a dangerous profession. He could still remember Lamorak griping about missing the birth and youth of his little brother…

...Odd. Did he have a second sibling?

“Is this an older sibling?” he asked.

Lamorak shook his head. “No. You’ve heard me talk about her before.” Before Arthur could ask anything else, Lamorak’s eyes flicked over to Galahad for just a moment.

The pieces clicked into place.

“I think I understand.”

Lamorak tensed up. “W-Well… no mentioning any ‘brothers’ or anything of the sort! I never had a brother and…”

“I understand,” Arthur repeated firmly, and Lamorak glared at the ground, embarrassed at his slip-up. “I’d be happy to have an audience with her. How old is she?”

“Thirteen,” Lamorak replied quietly, and Arthur’s heart sank. He had seen no issue with knighting teen warriors when he himself was that young. Now, as a grown man, it felt so wrong to place such a rough existence on such naive minds.

“You were only fourteen when I knighted you, were you not?” he asked, just as quietly, and Lamorak frowned. “Do you think that was the right thing to do?”

Arthur feared the response.

“I’m not sure,” Lamorak admitted, finally looking back up at him. “But this is the only life I know, and right now, it’s the only life I want. And if Percival wants to give it a try… it would be unfair to deny her that.”

Arthur had to take comfort in that. At least Lamorak stayed, not simply out of a sense of duty. Arthur looked over to the Round Table; Lancelot and Galahad had left during their discussion.

He could only hope that the others stayed his knights because they wanted to as well.

* * *

Percival wasn’t what he expected.

Lamorak was green, rough around the edges, loud and boisterous. His sister was graceful, calm and composed, a purple cat with long hair pulled back into a ponytail. As she bowed and greeted him, her voice was soft and even, with only the occasional crack of pubescence breaking the measured grace of her speech. She seemed wise beyond her years, and despite her gentle demeanor, she held a sort of nobility that hinted at something much more powerful.

Arthur was intrigued, and he wasn’t the only one; Lancelot was regarding her carefully, Gawain and Gareth seemed surprised, and Galahad was leaning forward in his seat.

“You may rise,” he instructed her, and as she got to her feet, he continued. “We understand that you wish to join our ranks as a knight.”

“I do.” Her reply was immediate and certain, and before Arthur could say anything else, she continued. “And if I may, I know how I wish to earn my title.”

Arthur blinked in curiosity, and waved a hand to encourage her to keep speaking.

Percival took a deep breath and continued. “You have three sacred swords among your ranks. I swear to find and bring back the legendary Laevatein as its bearer.”

“You cannot be serious,” came the unexpected voice from Arthur’s right. He glanced down; Caliburn tended to remain silent during royal addresses, but it seemed as though his trusty sword had a few words to say. “Laevatein hides itself in the Grail Volcano, deep inside near the lava. All those who have attempted have perished in the heat.”

The smallest prideful smile made itself onto the cat’s face. “I understand, and I thank you for your concern. However…”

Her hand rose, and from her palm, a small spurt of fire appeared, dancing as it glowed bright before extinguishing itself.

“...I am born of the flame.”

In the corner, Lamorak looked on proudly. Galahad’s eyes were wide. Caliburn remained silent for a moment before clearing his throat.

“My apologies for doubting you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Percival returned before facing Arthur once more. “I hope finding Laevatein and bringing it back will suffice?”

“It will do more than suffice.” Arthur sat back in his throne. “Once you’ve done so, we will be more than happy to name you the Knight of the Flame.”

Percival gave him a genuine smile, and Arthur could tell that she would fit in just fine.

“We do have one condition.”

Her smile left, but she nodded, ready to face her task.

“You do not appear to be armed, and the Grail Volcano is a while away. You will pass by many towns on your journey, and surely you have heard of the rise of the knights of the underworld?” At her nod, he gestured to his ranks. “Therefore, we will spare two knights to accompany you on your quest. Do you accept these terms?”

Often when he named terms such as these, the subject would demonstrate reluctance or outright refuse due to arrogance or a desire to prove themselves alone, yet Percival did neither.

“I agree.”

Arthur almost grinned at how professional this one was. Lamorak’s sister was proving to be more than he expected, though he still had reservations about her youth. He looked among his knights, wondering who he could spare and who would stand to gain the most from the experience.

“Sir Bors.”

The crocodile’s head snapped up at the mention of his name, and he strode over to Percival’s left side. Bors was a heavy-hitter, able to do much damage to many opponents without much effort, and he hadn’t been allowed to travel far as of late. He had been going a little stir-crazy, according to Bedivere. The trip would be good for him.

As for the other knight… well, how could Arthur choose otherwise, when he looked so eager?

“And Sir Galahad.”

The pale hedgehog jolted in his seat, but rushed over to Percival’s right side, looking over the moon to be getting such a special mission. Arthur glanced over to Lancelot; his friend’s mouth was set in a hard line, and his arms were crossed, but he made no move to contradict Arthur’s decision. Arthur hoped that meant that he accepted his choice.

“We urge you to put your safety above all else. We do not mind if this quest takes several weeks, so long as you all come back unharmed. Is that understood?”

“Understood!” came the chorus of three voices, and out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Lancelot relax, just a little.

“And if you should discover anything about the source of these shadow knights, we urge you to message us with due haste.”

Galahad and Bors voiced their understanding once more, but Percival frowned. “Sire, may I speak plainly?”

Perhaps she was more like Lamorak than he had thought.

“You may.”

“If these knights are truly of magical origin, shouldn’t someone well-practiced in magic have some idea of where they come from?”

Arthur’s teeth clenched. Truthfully, he had been thinking the same thing, but he had been too worried about the implications that it carried to take action. There was something that assured him that he was being paranoid, that the stress was putting unnecessary weight on his intuition, but with his suspicions being all but said aloud by another, he realized how foolish he had been.

He hadn’t been doing what was best for everyone, but what he wanted to be best for himself.

“We will look into that. Thank you, Percival.”

Once the trio had been dismissed, Arthur set out to do just that.

* * *

“Merlina.”

The wizard jumped, having been too engrossed in the visions her reflecting pool had been showing her to notice the sudden appearance of her king. Arthur’s speed was still that of legends, his footfalls so quiet that only a breeze alerted one of his arrival.

“M-My lord! What brings you here? Is there something I can help you with?”

Arthur’s face was set in a stern frown, unlike his usual self. He wanted her to know he was serious. “What do you know about the knights of the underworld?”

Merlina blanched, and it was like a slap in the face.

“I… I know nothing. I cannot imagine--”

“Merlina.” Arthur struggled to keep his composure under the weight of his suspicions and the resulting betrayal lingering on the horizon if he was proven correct. “These creatures are magical in origin. There aren’t many wizards in Avalon that I can name. Surely you would have looked into this matter the minute you found out sorcery was involved.”

Merlina bit her lip and shifted her gaze. There was a long, tense silence.

“Please. Please just tell me what you know.”

His friend looked distressed, cornered by something she wasn’t ready to face. Her eyes kept shifting, from himself, to her pool, to a spot on the wall.

It was as good as a confession, but Arthur needed more than just an admission. He needed this problem fixed, and Merlina was the only one who could help. Magic wasn’t a common practice at all, and he had already sought out the advice of Nimue, who told him that her abilities couldn’t aid him in this endeavor.

“...Why do flowers bloom, when they are destined to wither?”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. What was she on about?

“I have seen… _terrible_ things in my reflecting pool. Visions of the future of Camelot and Avalon if nothing is to change. A feud between Lancelot and Gawain splits the Round Table, and you are struck down by--”

“I don’t care!” Arthur snapped, and Merlina blinked, shocked. “I don’t care about what visions you had! If something worries you, _you tell me!_ You _trust_ me to look into it on my own terms!”

“But no matter what, it’s always the same future!” Merlina insisted, getting upset. “Do you not care that your own son--”

“I don’t,” Arthur interrupted once more, ignoring the unpleasant lurch that his stomach gave at the implications that the word ‘son’ carried. “Not right now. No matter what you see, our future is never set in stone, and our own decisions will shape it. Your vision will not come true if we do our best to make sure it won’t. What I care about right now is what we’re going to do about these shadow knights, and saving our kingdom.”

Another tense silence stretched out between them as Merlina, still stricken from Arthur’s outburst, slowly started to cry. Arthur’s heart hurt, both from his wizard’s betrayal and mistrust, and from the guilt at making her cry, but he couldn’t be the good guy every time.

Not when there was a far bigger problem at hand.

“I… I thought that… if I made a big enough threat, that the Lady of the Lake would guide you to Excalibur,” Merlina finally confessed, wiping at her eyes. “The scabbard guarantees immortality to the bearer, and if… if you were to bring it back to Camelot, I could use it to… to make our kingdom eternal and peaceful.” Merlina hiccuped, pressing her hand to her mouth as another round of tears made it from her eyes.

Arthur took a moment to take it all in. “You wanted to cast a spell to make Avalon never end, and never change?” he summarized. When Merlina nodded, he sighed, exhausted. “Merlina, I assure you, nothing would make me less happy than ruling forever.” At her horrified look, he elaborated. “It’s not something I’m proud to say, but being king weighs on me like nothing else. It is my job, and I accept it, but I take comfort in knowing that I won’t rule until the end of time. Everything ends, my friend, and it’s sad, but that’s why we must make the most of what we have while we have it.” He gave her a moment to wipe away her tears. “That’s what I figure, anyhow.”

Merlina, once again, was silent for a long time, processing his words. Right as Arthur opened his mouth to try to convince her some more, the tiniest, weakest, “I’m sorry,” came from her as she broke down once again. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry… I’ve caused so much pain and destruction…”

“Your heart was in the right place,” Arthur tried to comfort her, feeling uncomfortable at the sheer amount of _pain_ he heard in her voice. Pain that he had caused. “You just… need to find a better way of handling your fears.”

Merlina nodded her head in agreement, gasping though her sobs, and after a while, Arthur couldn’t bear it anymore. He stepped forward, taking her hand in both of his, and squeezed in an offer of comfort while she cried. Her own hand squeezed back in thanks, and for a while they stood there as Merlina repented. Once she was calm enough to stop crying, Arthur guided her to a chair and bade her to sit down.

“Can you stop the magic knights?” he asked, eager to be done with the whole ordeal.

“It will take a while,” Merlina answered, voice hoarse from crying, “but I can reverse their summoning.” Arthur nodded, satisfied and certain that his knights and his army could handle their foes a little longer as the spell was reversed. “Y-Your Majesty? Will I… will I be tried for my crimes?”

Arthur’s heart sank. That was another difficult decision for him to make, but he knew that he needed to uphold the code he had been promoting since he was a child.

“You will. But I will fight for your forgiveness.”

Merlina stared at him in disbelief. “But why? I could have done something irreparable--”

“But you didn’t,” Arthur cut in firmly. “I stopped you, and you chose to repent. I think that deserves forgiveness.”

Merlina sunk into her chair. “You truly are… the greatest king Avalon will ever have.”

Arthur laughed a nervous, uneasy laugh. “I hope not.”

“Then you underestimate the power of kindness and forgiveness.”

Arthur looked down to his hand, still gripping Merlina’s in a show of comfort and support. “I think that power belongs to anyone. They just have to choose to use it.”

As he said it, he knew how difficult the resulting fallout would be. He knew how angry his court would be. He knew that forgiveness was an ability that many chose not to practice, leading to harsh consequences and punishments. He knew that Merlina, at any point, might decide to return to her plans to make him rule eternally.

But he had to listen to his heart when it told him to forgive her, and so he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can tell that Blaze is one of my favorites, can't you?
> 
> Here's where we start the plotline of 'avoiding the events of SatBK', because it wouldn't work out with Arthur not being an illusion; it starts with the difficult decision to start doubting your friends, and the decision to take your future into your own hands.
> 
> Next chapter: The Knights of the Grail set out for the next sacred sword, and Galahad makes a really cool new friend.


	12. Chapter 12

Galahad looked up at the solid gray sky, a solid mass of clouds hanging low over the world. A frigid breeze ran through the grass at his feet, making the brittle blades wave back and forth. It was always kind of sad how, around his birthday, no plants seemed to grow or thrive, save for the evergreen trees which he had come to think of as his favorites for their sheer resilience. As the dead leaves crunched under his feet as he travelled with his companions, he let loose a shiver.

Still, he supposed this was the best weather to have when going to visit a volcano. He would be plenty warm once they reached their destination.

He sped up a little and caught up with Sir Bors. He rather liked Bors, even if his father didn’t seem all that keen. Galahad vaguely remembered seeing Bors in action against Gawain once in his childhood. Such an exciting fight! Such power and strength from both opponents! Such destruction… He remembered his father getting very angry, though Galahad didn’t see the problem. He had come out of his viewing unharmed, after all!

Bors seemed happy for his company, at any rate. Galahad was glad; he was, by far, the youngest of all the knights, and the youngest to ever be knighted! It was a feat that made him very proud and very eager to show everything he could do.

It was also what made him so intrigued by their new ally.

A girl of thirteen, only a year his senior at most, and already setting her sights on a sacred sword! Galahad had heard the story of Arthur claiming Caliburn at ten years old from his father, yet aside from choosing a detour to fight a dragon, there hadn’t been anything particularly dangerous about going to find it. Meanwhile, Percival was ready to face an active volcano to claim her status.

Galahad was impressed and amazed, and it just strengthened his resolve to find new ways to be the best knight he could be.

Percival was leading their group, travelling forward with considerable speed, unweighted by armor and unarmed, yet bravely pushing forward. Galahad knew that this was her own quest, and that he and Bors were only there in case any more of those underworld knights made an appearance, but all the same… He wanted to get to know this new knight, since he was certain she would succeed. After all, she could conjure flames! He had never seen an ability like that before, save the one time Bors had breathed fire at Gawain during their sparring match, and the blast had just missed Galahad--

_ Ah, that was probably why Father was so angry. _

With a small running start, Galahad leaped into the air and propelled himself forward until he was flying by Percival’s side. It seemed as though she hadn’t been expecting any company, as she started and almost lost her footing.

“I apologize! I didn’t mean to surprise you!”

Percival cleared her throat, recovering quickly from the incident. "No harm done…"

"No, really," Galahad insisted, swooping lower so that his feet almost touched the ground. "I forget that others don't know about my abilities. I just got so excited! I haven't met someone like me in a long time!"

Percival regarded him, eyes narrowed. "Like you?"

Galahad nodded. "Everyone else in Camelot is an adult. All the other knights are adults. I'm the youngest one…"

Percival's gaze softened. "You've not grown up with other children?"

Galahad shook his head. "I stayed in the castle with Father for as long as I can remember. When everyone else started, they were all young, but now…"

"You feel like a child among men?"

"...I do." His eyes flicked over to her. "Which is why I'm glad you're here! Once you’re knighted, I won’t feel so out of place.”

An odd look passed over Percival’s features, and her gaze snapped back in front of her. “You presume many things, Sir Galahad.”

“I’ve been told as much,” he returned, keeping his place beside her. “I’ve always been hopeful, and I like to think that many appreciate it more than they say.”

There was a pause between them, in which Galahad started to worry that he had, indeed, said too much to his companion, until Percival let out a soft laugh. Shaking her head, she said, “You’re very naive.”

“I’ve been told that before, too.” All the same, he relaxed. It seemed as though Percival didn’t think less of him for what he said. He believed with all his heart that they would be friends once her quest was over.

* * *

The trio stopped for a rest halfway to their destination. As Percival took her turn drinking from the waterskin, Sir Bors beckoned Galahad over. The youth approached, unaware of the cat’s sharp ears turned in their direction as Bors murmured to him.

“You’ve noticed it, right?”

Leave it to Bors to speak in code. “Erm…” Galahad racked his brains, trying to think, yet all that came to mind was how cold it was and how dry his mouth felt after so many hours on the move. Bors frowned impatiently and Galahad squirmed. He couldn’t help it if he wasn’t as observant as Sir Bors or Bedivere! “N… No?”

“The shadow knights,” Bors said, and suddenly it all clicked into place. Galahad’s eyes widened.

“We haven’t seen any yet… Do you think they’re all attacking somewhere else?” Galahad’s brow furrowed in worry as he thought about the Round Table, now down two members.

“Maybe,” Bors replied, crossing his arms as he thought. “Either that, or someone’s gotten to the bottom of this mess.”

That was an optimistic thought, and one Galahad hadn’t expected from Bors. “Do you really think so?”

“You saw the king when Percival mentioned magic, did you not?”

He had. He had seen the shadow pass over His Majesty’s eyes, and the stiffness in his shoulders as they were dismissed, but Galahad had assumed that the king had been considering next steps. His father had told him of King Arthur’s visit to Nimue, in the hopes of shedding some light on the matter, yet she could not help. So, then, what else was there?

Then it hit him.

“ **_Merlina?!_ ** ” he exclaimed, definitely too loud for Bors’ liking by the way the crocodile tensed up.

“Quiet down!” His eyes snapped over to Percival, who was regarding the both of them with displeasure at their poor attempt at being secretive. “We shouldn’t be so open with court affairs with outsiders.”

“But she’s Lamorak’s sister!” Galahad protested. “And she’ll be knighted soon enough!”

“He’s right, you know,” came a voice from behind them, and Galahad cried out in surprise and whirled around to find Percival looking him coolly in the eye. “You shouldn’t trust so easily.”

Galahad was floored. “But how will I be able to fight for others without trust?” he asked in dismay, and both his companions averted their gaze.

“You trusted Merlina, did you not?”

“Yes,” Galahad answered. “And… I still do. I don’t know for certain what’s happening, and that’s why… that’s why I can’t afford to doubt her, or you, or  _ anyone _ .”

As he said it, he felt so much pure conviction, so much strength in his beliefs. King Arthur had always advocated for following one’s heart as part of doing what was best, and he had seen this belief in his father, who swore by this code whenever he spoke about being a knight. Galahad believed in people. Galahad believed in trust. His heart yearned to reach out to others and have them reach back in a show of faith and trust.

Even in the silence that followed his assertion, he didn’t feel his convictions waver, and as Percival passed him the waterskin with a remark that they should head out again, Galahad hoped that he had reached out to her as well.

* * *

The Grail Volcano was gigantic. Galahad gaped at the mountainous mass of rock, with clouds of black smoke and ash billowing from the top. Laevatein’s hiding spot certainly wasn’t for the faint of heart.

The trio trekked up the volcano’s rocky surface, at first slowly, getting a sense of what was to come, yet soon enough Bors started humming, something he often did when he was bored, and Galahad brought forth the suggestion that he could levitate all three of them to the top much quicker.

Yet Percival refused. “This is my quest, and I wish to see it through alone as it ought to be done.”

All Galahad could do was respect her wishes, and the trio kept climbing until night fell and they reached the top.

Galahad had never seen a real volcano before, let alone an active one. He had only read of them in novels, yet even the most poetic descriptions failed to capture the raw power before him. The heat was overpowering, and the drop from the mouth down to the molten rock below was a dizzying height, so intense that he had to take a step back and remind himself to breathe.

“Laevatein is in there?” he asked, and both Bors and Percival nodded in response.

“Well then, Lady Percival,” Bors spoke up. “We’ll keep an eye out up here in case we get any unwanted guests. It’s all up to you from here.”

The cat nodded in acknowledgement, took a deep breath, and faced her challenge. For a moment, all was still, and Galahad wondered just how she would manage to find her way down.

Then, she jumped.

With a cry of shock, Galahad rushed forward, peering down and squinting against the painful light of the fire. He blinked away waves of heat stinging his eyes, and soon enough he could see the slight figure of Percival jumping from cliff to cliff, clinging to one part of the volcano’s interior before leaping to the next, making her way down methodically. The heat seemed to have no effect on her, and even a sudden burst from a magma bubble spraying up into the air did nothing to deter her. Galahad watched in amazement as she got further and further down, appearing smaller and smaller, until the light below was too bright to see her at all.

“Do you think she found it?” he asked Bors, shifting around to try to get a glimpse of her, but to no avail.

“We’ll see in a moment.” When Galahad kept straining to get a glimpse of their companion, Bors followed up with a softer, “If anyone can do it, it’s her.” Galahad had to be content with that.

For a while, all they could do was wait. Minutes passed, and Galahad found himself stricken with growing anxiousness. “Perhaps… Perhaps I should go and check--”

“Absolutely not! You’re not suited to flames, Galahad, and your father would have my head if anything happened to you!”

The young hedgehog let out a groan and kicked at the ground in frustration. He hated it when his father threatened the other knights for his wellbeing; it was one of the few things that he found positively annoying about being Lancelot’s son. Still, Bors was right that he wouldn’t survive long in heat like that. Galahad almost missed the cold of that morning, when they had begun their journey. He sighed, sinking into a crouch, as he recalled the cold breeze sweeping through his quills…

Movement inside the volcano caught his eye, and he leaned over the edge, heart pounding in anticipation. There she was! There was Percival, scaling the volcano with a long rapier clenched between her teeth!

“She did it! Look, Bors! She did it!”

“Well I’ll be damned,” Bors murmured, before casting a guilty look over at Galahad for having sworn in his presence, yet the boy was too excited to notice or to care. Percival had done it! The Round Table would have another knight, a young knight like him! He would have a friend!

Percival’s travel upward was agonizingly slow, yet all of Galahad’s trepidation had vanished; his friend had proven worthy of a sacred sword, and so he had no doubts that she would complete her quest without an issue. Once she was in earshot, he started cheering her on, and though he couldn’t quite see her all that well still, he was certain that his encouragement had made her start to climb faster. Nothing was stopping her…

...except for her handhold breaking off and sending her falling down toward the magma below.

Galahad didn’t think; his hand was outstretched in a second, his power flowing downward and fixing on Percival, stopping her in mid-fall. She floated, Laevatein still clamped between her jaws, and Galahad moved her gently back to the side of the volcano until she latched back onto the solid rock.

“Why didn’t you bring her back up here?” Bors asked, and Galahad let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding.

“Because that’s not what she wants.”

Bors nodded and clapped him on the back. “Good reasoning. You’re more clever than I give you credit for.”

Galahad grinned. Coming from Bors, who despite his brash and goofy demeanor was, in fact, an incredibly observant and clever individual, that meant a lot. He was glad that in the short time he had known her, he had started to figure out Percival’s nature.

He hoped it would make them fast friends.

Percival’s climb proceeded without another hitch, and though it was deep into the night once she had made it back to the top, Galahad considered their mission to be a massive success.

“What were you thinking? I was supposed to do this unaided!”

...Or perhaps not…

“But… But you would have died!” he protested. “And Laevatein would be lost forever--”

“I know that!” Percival sighed and wiped at her forehead. “And… I thank you, truly, but… with your interference, how can I really say that I am worthy of Laevatein?”

Galahad’s heart sank. He had hoped that his interference was justified enough, and though it seemed as though Percival wasn’t truly angry with him, she appeared to put a lot of self-worth and pride in her independence. Galahad thought to Sir Lamorak, her brother, having been a knight since she was born. She must have looked up to him, in the same way that he looked up to his father. Now, with a chance to prove herself, she had been faced with an ultimatum; failure, or death.

She had chosen, but it seemed as though it would take a while for her to regain her pride.

Bors, however, seemed to think differently.

“Did you, at any point, drop your sword?”

Percival looked over to him, startled. “I… did not.”

“Not even when you were falling to your doom?”

“No. I did not.”

“Then,” Bors continued, tone casual as he leaned on his own sword, “Laevatein is most definitely yours. You just happened to catch a lucky break. It happens a lot on the job, with or without backup.”

Percival’s tail swished back and forth as she considered it. “Yes… but had Galahad not been there, I doubt a similar ‘lucky break’ would have occurred.”

“And why does that matter?” Bors asked. “He was there, and you and Laevatein are here with us, instead of dead down there.” He nodded back at the volcano. “As far as I’m concerned, if you had gone alone, you would still be Laevatein’s first, last, and only master.”

“And I put you back on the wall,” Galahad piped up, “so it’s not as if I completed your quest for you!”

Percival was silent, gripping the rapier between her hands. It was too dark to make out the majesty of the sword, yet Galahad was more concerned about its owner.

“How about this?” Bors offered. “We won’t tell if you don’t.”

Galahad nodded vigorously in agreement, and finally Percival’s tension seemed to relax just a little.

“I suppose… there are worse outcomes.”

“Yes,” Galahad agreed. “Like dying.”

He had said it out of impulse, and regretted it immediately, looking in horror over at Percival, who he surely must have offended. Yet she let out a quiet snort, twirling the blade of her sword between her fingers. “Yes, Sir Galahad. Like dying.”

The trio began their trek back down the volcano, and the cold night air stung after the insufferable heat at the volcano’s mouth. As they descended, Bors brought up the topic of payment for his silence, to which he got the blade of a rapier turned menacingly against him until he laughed and nervously assured it was a joke. Galahad, still uncertain about how Percival would take his interference in the long run, took comfort in knowing that, no matter how he looked at it, he did the right thing, even if it meant damaging his chance at a close friendship.

The soft sound of crunching rock below feet alerted him before her words did. “Sir Galahad?”

“Yes?”

“I wanted to apologize,” she said, voice soft.

He shook his head. “There’s nothing to apologize for,” he insisted, feeling a weight leave him at her willingness to approach him.

“You’re right,” she agreed, surprising him. “There’s nothing to apologize for, least of all from you.” Galahad faltered; he had been planning to apologize in turn immediately after. “In fact… perhaps I should be thanking you instead.”

Galahad felt his face flush, once again warm against the cool night air. “It was the right thing to do.”

“Spoken like a true knight of the Round Table,” she returned, keeping her pace by his side. “It would do me well to stay by a friend like you.”

And Galahad, in his joy at being told something like that from someone as incredible as she, couldn’t stop himself from levitating upwards and doing a backflip in the air.

_ A friend! He had made a friend! _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi yes Galahad is an absolute treasure.
> 
> Next chapter: An opposing empire starts getting hostile, and Lancelot realizes something about himself that maybe should have been obvious for a while now.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The T rating returns with a vengeance this chapter.

“Is everything clear?” Arthur asked, voice still upbeat and inspiring despite the situation they were in, and all around him, a chorus of voices cheered back their assent. Lancelot moved into position beside Galahad and Percival; his son grinned at him before lowering his visor, while Percival stood straight and at attention, focused until she would be dismissed. Lancelot knew that she wasn’t thrilled about always having supervision on her missions, but he understood Arthur’s reasoning. No matter how powerful and mature she and Galahad acted, they were still children, and as adults, they needed to acknowledge that.

“It won’t be easy, but with my knights taking out the dragons, and the army taking out the soldiers, this siege on our land won’t end in our defeat!” Arthur cried, raising Caliburn into the air, and all around him his subjects cheered. Morale spiked to an all time high, and warriors of all kinds in King Arthur’s army started shoving in their haste to go out and protect their people.

It was unfortunate, truly, that the new king of the Saxons, King Ælle, was so greedy that he wished for an empire over a kingdom, and had so recently set his sights on Avalon as a conquest. He was a madman and a genius, with enough resources to have both men and dragons at his disposal to help him ravage and claim land, and despite his rather laughable bravado and mannerisms, he was a threat to take seriously.

Lancelot would rather die than see Avalon fall at the hands of the Saxon Empire.

His hand clenched at Ddraig Goch, his newest acquisition. Smithy, after having examined Arondight so many times, had painstakingly forged him a new sword with his observations, and though Lancelot still favored his sacred sword, he could and would not refuse Smithy’s labor. To have a sword crafted with him in mind was a gesture of kindness that touched him greatly, and so it was with pride that he would take it into battle tonight.

As the army clamored out the doors and the knights grouped off, King Arthur went over final instructions. Their messenger had reported four dragons, one from each cardinal direction, and so the knights had grouped into threes; Lancelot’s group would head due south.

“Once you’ve finished off your dragon, head to one of the other groups,” Arthur ordered. “Once you’ve finished them all off, help the army, save civilians, do whatever you can to keep damages at a minimum.”

“And what about you, Sire?” Sir Gawain asked, spinning one blade of Galatine around. “Will you be assisting the army?”

“No, I…” Arthur’s eyes dulled in reluctance, and no one had the heart to point out that he had dropped formalities by forgoing the royal we. “I will be staying here, at the castle. This is where I will receive any and all status updates, and where I will plan out battle plans with the royal tacticians. As much as I would love nothing more than to fight alongside you all, this is one battle we cannot afford to lose, and if that means I must act as a mouthpiece between you all… then that is what I must do.” He shook his head, and then grinned at them all. “At any rate, I trust you all to do what I could do, and the next time King Ælle sets foot on our land, I swear to you that I shall be the one leading the fight!”

His affirmation was met with another chorus of cheers, smaller in number yet no less strong in approval. Lancelot looked up to his oldest friend, feeling a familiar warm glow of pride within. Arthur truly had turned out to be a great king.

“Now go forth, and let King Ælle see that we won’t be messed with!”

With another deafening cheer, the knights set out. Lancelot raced forward, hearing Percival’s rapid footfalls to his left and seeing his son’s electric blue aura reach forth on his right. The trio dashed out, taking out any soldiers they met on their way to their primary target. It figured that they would get the furthest dragon; on foot, they were by far the three fastest knights, outclassed only by Arthur himself. It was something Lancelot took pride in, and as the dragon came into visual range, he tightened his grip on Ddraig Goch.

“Sir Percival!” he called out, “I’ll leave finding the weak spot to you! Sir Galahad, cover her!”

His son saluted. “Understood!”

“Leave it to me,” Percival returned, and Lancelot dashed out in front, leaping up and catapulting himself off of a few trees, climbing higher and higher until he was up in the sky, ready to draw the dragon’s attention. He unsheathed his sword, feeling it resonate with his energies with remarkable ease, and as he focused his power into a Chaos Punishment, he felt it manifest into a blast that shook the skies in a radius much larger than normal. It was more than enough to distract the dragon, as he heard it roar loud enough to reach the heavens.

Once he landed back on solid ground, Lancelot looked at his new weapon in wonder. How Smithy had managed to go above and beyond the power of a sacred sword was beyond him, yet he couldn’t deny the results. Arthur’s brother was certainly a genius.

As the great winged beast made a beeline right for him, Lancelot braced his weapon once more, surging forward and aiming for the dragon’s head. Out the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of metal on the dragon’s left side; Percival was right on time, and right on task. Taking comfort in knowing that he had taken the most dangerous task of the three, Lancelot struck over and over, yet despite the incredible power of his blade, it did nothing to pierce the dragon’s rough hide. Worse still, Lancelot noticed that the more he struck and the harder his blows, the duller the blade got.

He supposed he had taken Arondight’s blade that could never lose its edge for granted after so many years… Still, what kind of knight would he be if he wasn’t able to adapt?

He aimed for the beast’s eyes next, but the lids closed before his strike could hit its mark. Lancelot scarcely had time to curse before the great beast bucked its head, throwing him off with ease until he crashed against a tree. His head smacked hard against the trunk, his body seizing in shock before he fell several feet to the ground with a loud thud, pain exploding through his body so intensely he thought he might never move again.

“Sir Lancelot!” 

He could only barely make out Sir Percival’s words over the ringing in his ears.

“It’s the underbelly! The weak spot is--”

He heard the whistle of the dragon’s tail before it hit its target, and through the fog in his head from his impact, he saw Percival’s lean frame flying through the air before slamming into a tree as he had done just moments before.

The underbelly? Lancelot tried to get to his feet, yet his body wasn’t cooperating. Scrunching up his face in frustration, he tried to stand once more, but the pain returned with a vengeance and his legs buckled under him. How was he supposed to get to the dragon’s underbelly when he could barely stand? He lifted his head; the dragon's head was looming over him, with its tail raised above what he could barely make out as Percival’s limp silhouette. Lancelot lifted his sword, ready to fight to the death if he had to, but his arms were shaking. It seemed as if the blow had taken more out of him than he had realized, but he could not give up. He could not give up--

**_“LEAVE THEM ALONE!”_ **

The scream didn’t register to him as Galahad’s at first; it was far too raw, too furious and untamed to be his son, yet the dragon was seized in an instant by a blue energy, and no matter how hard it thrashed and fought, it was unable to break free. Lancelot sucked in a breath and tried to clear the fog from his head, and there was Galahad, glowing bright between him and Percival, his visor lifted and his face twisted in such a ferocious snarl that Lancelot almost couldn’t recognize him. He had never in his life seen his son so beside himself with fury, nor had he ever seen Galahad control anything as large as the dragon before them.

The dragon struggled once more, but Galahad’s powers held firm. **“It’s no use!”** the silver knight roared, raising his hands and levitating the beast high into the sky. **“Take this!”** And with a twist of his hands and a flick of his wrists, the dragon flipped over and was pummelled into the ground.

Lancelot didn’t have enough time to be amazed or proud, as Galahad screamed over his shoulder, “What are you waiting for? Finish it now!” Somehow, that was just the boost Lancelot needed to find his footing again. One foot fell in front of the other, and he burst into a stumble that smoothed itself out into a run. The dragon roared, terrified and angry, but Lancelot refused to listen as he leapt onto the beast. On the other side, by the tail, Percival did the same. Both knights drew their swords and together they stabbed into the dragon’s softer underbelly, drawing a roar of pain from their foe. Both kept their blades buried within the dragon’s flesh as they raced towards each other, creating two long gashes all the way down the beast’s weakest point, and as he and Percival got down from the belly of the beast, Galahad's aura faded and disappeared, and as the trio rushed a safe distance away while the beast howled and cried, Lancelot could see how exhausted his son looked. Percival looked just as worn as he felt, and Lancelot ordered them to stop and take a break.

All three collapsed at the base of a tree, catching their breath as the noises from the dragon slowly faded into nothing. Lancelot groaned, raising and stretching his left arm, feeling all the joints pop back into place. His age was starting to show; it took longer now for him to recover from such impacts. His hands travelled along his person, and aside from some mildly concerning cuts, he didn't feel any broken bones or any dislocations.

Sir Percival was the first to stand up. "I'll make sure it's dead," she said, voice even but hollow, and without waiting for a response, she dashed through the trees, leaving Lancelot behind with his son.

“You did well out there,” Lancelot offered, and he felt Galahad lean against him.

“I thought… I thought I was about to lose you,” his son whispered. “Both of you, so I… I…”

Lancelot swallowed, noticing how dry his throat was, yet when he took out his waterskin, he offered it to Galahad first. “Rage and fear can bring out our power in the worst kind of way,” he said. His mind raced back to Corbenic, and the day he had met his son, and how in a flash of red he had left piles of bodies littering the streets of his childhood home. His stomach clenched, and as Galahad handed him back the waterskin, he took a large gulp, hoping to calm his distress. If nothing else, he could take comfort in knowing that Galahad’s massive power awakening hadn’t been quite as traumatic as his own.

“I’ll have to keep practicing,” Galahad mused aloud, hugging his knees to his chest. “I do not wish to only unlock my power when I fear that someone I care for will die.”

“Have faith in yourself, son,” Lancelot croaked out, coughing a little as the water finished making its way down. He wiped at his mouth before continuing. “Have faith in yourself as I have faith in you.”

“And I as well.” Two heads lifted as Percival appeared from between the trees, Laevatein drawn and stained in bright green dragon’s blood. “You mustn’t doubt yourself so much, Galahad.”

Galahad seemed to curl up on himself, ducking his head and drawing his knees closer. As Lancelot’s hand landed on his shoulders in a show of comfort, and Percival dropped to a crouch on his other side, a soft ‘thank you’ could be heard. Lancelot offered the waterskin to Percival, and when she took it from his hand, their eyes met. She was looking at him with such a serious and noble expression that hardly seemed appropriate for someone her age, yet as she looked back to Galahad, that expression softened.

It was at that moment that Lancelot realized that, with or without him, both of them would be okay.

* * *

The quickest way to find the other groups was through the Grand Kingdom area, by the western dragon’s battlefield, and so as the trio set off once more, they fell back into position with Lancelot at the lead. When they passed Misty Lake, Lancelot couldn’t help but look to see if he could catch a glimpse of his mother, but the fog hung low and thick. A sense of unease settled over him, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint why, but it was pointless to dwell. As they dashed past the Deep Woods, Galahad called out from high up in the air.

“I see the western dragon! It’s been defeated!”

Lancelot called back his acknowledgement and continued their course to the town outside of Camelot Castle; it seemed as though Sir Gawain and his siblings had been successful. At least two major threats had been taken care of, and so the next course of action would be to help out the army until they got more information about the final two dragons.

When the town came into view, however, Lancelot lost some of his drive as memories from twelve years ago began flooding back; he could hear the sound of metal clanging and people yelling and screaming, he could smell the smoke and the blood and the dust. His hands trembled without his permission, and he grabbed onto his sword to steady himself and stay present. Grinding his teeth together, he darted forward into the town limits, eyes taking in the familiar sight of men locked in mortal combat, bodies in the streets, blood pooling on the ground and drying into a reddish-brown stain on the dusty roads, civilians barricading themselves inside their homes…

Lancelot took a deep breath and steeled his nerves. This wasn’t Corbenic. This wasn’t him against an army. This was him, as a knight, protecting not just this town, but the whole land, his home, from those who wished to take over and do them all harm.

With that in mind, he jumped into the fray.

The Saxon soldiers were all dressed in red and black, with the gaudy, tasteless coat of arms bearing King Ælle’s face plastered on their backs. Lancelot counted himself lucky that he hid under simple armor; his coloring would do him no favors with foes such as these. Ddraig Goch swung out, taking down soldier after soldier, fighter after fighter, and Lancelot found himself falling into a rhythm, his mind no longer going back to that dark day. As he struck forward for yet another foe, a blade flying from the right hit his target before his sword could connect. Blinking in surprise, Lancelot knelt down and pried the blade from the dead soldier’s neck, recognizing it instantly.

“Sir Lancelot! Would you mind returning that to me?”

Sir Gawain stood several feet away, the other blade of Galatine clenched in his left hand as he battled away another soldier coming toward him. The echidna’s punch sent the soldier flying backwards, knocking another two down on impact, and Sir Gawain turned back to Lancelot impatiently, holding open a hand. Lancelot tossed the blade, and once Gawain caught it, the two shared a look and a small nod. A challenge. Who would prove superior on the battlefield once more?

Lancelot turned back to the matter at hand, though Gawain’s challenge remained in his consciousness as he struck forward, fighting through the cuts and the bruises and the stiffness in his joints. The two knights did not talk often, but they acknowledged the other’s importance in the Round Table, and their rivalry was come and go rather than a full on push, but Lancelot couldn’t deny how effective it was to reshape his focus at that moment. He felt himself shift into a new state of being, where thoughts such as pain and other dragons and politics were as far from his mind as could be, where all that was before him were opponents to surge through and innocents to protect.

It was almost… _fun…_

The odd thought had only crossed his mind when an explosion of massive proportions shook the ground so violently that all fighting ceased for a moment or two as everyone struggled to keep their footing. Sound was an illusion for a while as all anyone could hear was absolutely nothing, followed by a high-pitched ringing that seemed as though it would never fade. Lancelot looked across the sea of confused and fearful faces, only to lock on to Gawain, who was looking upwards in horror. Lancelot followed his gaze and his stomach lurched so painfully he could have vomited.

Castle Camelot’s outer wall was a smoking mess, and Lancelot realized in an instant King Ælle’s true plan. In their haste to protect their land and their people, Arthur had sent all of his fighters out, leaving the castle guarded only by himself, a handful of tacticians, and the disgraced Royal Wizard, making it a prime target, and in their own haste to carry out His Majesty’s orders, no knight had raised an objection.

The king was unguarded.

**_Arthur was unguarded and the outer wall had been breached._ **

Lancelot didn’t remember when he began running, but he was weaving in between allies and foes alike, unable to care who he cast aside as he rushed towards the castle, panic welling in his chest. His injuries fell to the wayside as he pushed himself into full speed, only able to think about how absolutely _stupid_ he was for leaving Arthur alone like that in such an obvious war target; the morale and future of Avalon sat with their ruler, and without him, no one would find the strength to fight! Arthur was their king, beloved by all, and more than that, he was Lancelot’s dearest friend. Should he die…

Lancelot started hyperventilating as the image of Elaine’s corpse burst forth into his mind’s eye, and he felt about ready to scream as the image morphed so easily and so clearly into Arthur, the blue dress transforming into blue quills, and the golden hair shifting into a golden crown as Lancelot turned over the body, hoping and praying for a miracle, but only dead green eyes stared into the distance, so far away…

_Idiot, idiot, idiot!_

_Not you too, not you too, please just hold on, I’m coming..._

Lancelot found himself vaulting over the wreckage of the outer wall where it had been breached, and all around he saw poorly-armed tacticians and servants fighting tooth and nail for their lives against a new wave of enemy soldiers, and he reeled as he realized that he was the last hope for everyone in that courtyard. He hesitated just a moment, struggling with his duty to his king against his duty to the innocents, and trying to stop his mind from going back to that day again, and _again, and again…_

His fingers were on his rings again before he could realize what he was doing and the risk he was taking, but they fell to his feet the next instant and he knew there was no time to lose. Lancelot dashed all around the courtyard, slaying each and every one of King Ælle’s treacherous soldiers until they were all lying on the ground, but he couldn’t stop there. Lancelot raced through the courtyard, seeking out his king everywhere he could think of, picking off enemies left and right on his way. He cleared out the throne room 一 _he wasn’t there_ 一 and the tactician’s chambers 一 _he wasn’t there either, damn it,_ ** _where was he?_** 一 and all the way through the castle until he heard a familiar voice grunt in pain and the sound of metal clashing together inside the king’s chambers.

_Arthur!_

Lancelot kicked the door in without a second thought, and there was Arthur, panting and bleeding from slashes in his arms and one long gash down his chest, Caliburn held defensively in front of him as he faced down three foes. The soldiers, fully armed and protected, stood in a semicircle before his friend, who had been battling without armor, having not needed it in a strategic setting.

At Lancelot’s intrusion, all four looked over to him, and Arthur’s eyes lit up in delight and relief. “Lan--”

Lancelot’s name died in Arthur’s throat as one of the soldiers recovered from the distraction and struck forward, her sword meeting Caliburn in a particularly deadly slice while dark magic permeated the blade. Caliburn flew from Arthur’s hand, blade shattering as the hilt cried out in surprise, clattering to the floor and sliding halfway across the room.

_**“NO!”**_ Arthur yelled in horror and fury, paying his foes no heed as he darted forth, faster than any of them could blink, over to his fallen sword. “Caliburn! Caliburn are you okay?!”

The sound of Arthur’s distress awakened a new fury within Lancelot, but that was nothing compared to the sight of that same soldier rushing towards Arthur, her evil blade held aloft and aimed right for his neck--

Lancelot saw red once more, and a feral cry ripped itself from his throat, and the next thing he knew, his sword had skewered the soldier through her torso before her strike could hit its mark.

_**“DON’T TOUCH HIM!”** _

The red clouded his vision, and for a while, Lancelot ran on pure instinct, pure rage, pure terror. His brain didn’t take in every act of slaughter he carried out in that room, but when time seemed to still and come back into focus, Lancelot saw the blood dripping from his sword, Smithy’s labor and pride, and Arthur’s chambers splattered with red. Lancelot tried to breathe, but no air would go in his lungs. His legs buckled below him and he fell to the ground, exhausted and feeling the residual adrenaline ebb into panic once more.

“Lancelot?”

Lancelot looked up, and there was Arthur, bruised and bleeding, holding a broken sword, likely scarred forever, but _alive._ Arthur was alive, Arthur was okay and breathing and standing before him, so why could Lancelot still see his body in his mind’s eye? Why could he still feel the cold touch of his best friend’s corpse as he heard himself scream to the heavens?

_I almost didn’t make it. I almost lost you, too._

“Lancelot, can you hear me?”

He felt hands rest on his shoulders, and it was only then that he noticed how badly he was shaking. Arthur knelt before him, eyes wide with concern, eyes alive and real, like an anchor grounding him away from his thoughts that taunted him with endless images of what could have been, and Lancelot took off his helmet so he could better see that yes, he wasn’t imagining things, he had been lucky, Arthur was alive, Arthur was okay and before him and he vowed not to cry, no matter what he did.

This, he completely and utterly failed to do.

His hands flew to his face as he realized the tears were coming, but once they started there was no stopping them. Everything was too much, he had used too much power, he was delirious, he kept seeing Elaine and Corbenic and then Arthur with that cursed blade hanging over his neck, ready to sever his head from his body, and if Lancelot had been just a little later then… then…

Two arms reached around his shoulders and pulled him in close, breaking his train of thought. For a moment, Lancelot sat limply in his best friend’s embrace, mind unable to catch up with reality, but he felt Arthur’s warmth and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, and slowly, slowly, his own hands lifted up to clasp at his friend’s back. His eyes closed, and he let the tears fall.

“It’s okay, Lancelot,” Arthur murmured, right next to his ear. “You’re okay.”

“You could have died,” Lancelot choked out, face burning in shame. “I could have been too late and you--”

“But you weren’t,” Arthur said, interrupting him as he always did. “And I’m still alive, thanks to you.”

“You still could have--”

“Yet I still didn’t. You cannot live life stuck on what could have been.”

“But I’ve lived what could have been!” Lancelot roared, desperate and furious with himself. “I’ve seen it! I’ve lost someone I cared about, too late to help them, and I can’t… I can’t do that again. Not again. Not you.”

_Not you not you never you please never you…_

“Lance.”

The old nickname made Lancelot’s raging mind screech to a halt. So many years ago, when they were still children, Lancelot had protested Arthur’s use of that nickname, making him swear to never use it again. Now, with Arthur saying it so firmly, Lancelot was at a loss for words.

“Lance, I swear to you, I’m not planning on leaving any time soon, so please… please calm down.”

Lancelot swallowed. “You’d better not.” Should Arthur ever die, Lancelot had no doubt that he would follow him into the grave a moment thereafter.

The severity of that thought struck him like a bolt of lightning, and Lancelot felt terror at how _certain_ he had felt at the concept. What of Galahad, his son? Why hadn’t he thought of him, and hesitated? Lancelot coughed, sniffling, and told himself that it was just the circumstances, he had almost lost his best friend, and the thought of a world without Arthur was so dark and hard to bear that it had momentarily blocked out all semblance of light in his world.

Lancelot moved his hands higher up on Arthur’s back. The sight of his wrists reminded him of his rings left lying outside, and he wished he had them back. His eyes closed, blocking out the sight of the blood and the massacre in the castle as he tried to focus his mind once more, despite the building exhaustion, heightened emotions and disturbing thoughts.

“I’m a lousy knight, for leaving you unguarded like that,” he finally stated, but Arthur let out a snort.

“Lancelot, you’re the best damn knight I’ll ever have, and that’s a fact.”

Why did that make his heart stop and then start again, beating like a drum in his chest? Why was his friend’s hold the anchor that kept him grounded? Why were the echoes of the image of Arthur’s body limp on the ground enough to drive despair into his heart? Why was Galahad like a burst of light in his darkest days, yet Arthur was like the sun itself, vital yet easy to take for granted, around which he revolved?

Lancelot’s heart sank as his grip on his king tightened and the pieces fell into place.

_Arthur… for how long have I loved you?_

* * *

Lancelot sat in the throne room, blanket over his shoulders, staring despondently out over the throng of people clamoring to give reports on casualties, and Arthur stood in the middle of it all, somehow keeping calm despite everything that had transpired. Caliburn’s hilt hung from his hand, occasionally letting out a quip or a word of advice, and the clumsy bandaging around Arthur’s arms and chest threatened to loosen and unravel, re-exposing his wounds.

Next to Lancelot, Galahad rested his head on his shoulder, gripping his father’s hand in worry.

Lancelot wanted nothing more than to snap back to normal, to reassure his son and to jump to Arthur’s side, lightening his load to bear and behaving as a knight should, but after draining his energy, reviving his trauma and discovering the true extent of his devotion to his king, Lancelot just wanted to sleep for a year. He sighed, and felt his son’s hold on his hand tighten once more.

The sea of voices was unbearable, but from what Lancelot could make out, they had won this battle by a decent margin, but they were utterly unprepared for a follow up attack. King Ælle had counted on Arthur’s loyalty to his people, and now they were paying the price for their full-out response to the siege of their land. In one corner, medics were running from victim to victim, soldier and civilian alike, and in another corner, the disgraced wizard Merlina was doing what she could with her magic to fix damages to the castle, including removing the bloodstains from the stones in the walls and floors. Lancelot rubbed at his wrists, feeling some comfort when he felt his rings back in place; Galahad had wasted no time fetching them for him once he found them missing.

“We won, didn’t we, Father?” his son asked, quiet yet clear in the cacophony of noise. “So why are so many people upset?”

Lancelot didn’t have the heart to explain anything to his optimistic, naive son, so he stayed silent, and Galahad didn’t ask again.

The throne room door slammed open once more, and Sir Tristan dashed in, looking beside herself with panic. “Is there a medic?” she demanded, head snapping from left to right as she tried to pinpoint a free worker, while behind her, Sir Bors shuffled in, face grim, as he held the slack body of Sir Bedivere in his arms. Galahad sat upright in his seat and Arthur’s attention was instantly redirected.

“What happened?” he demanded as Sir Bors came forth, but as he got closer, it was easy enough to deduce what had transpired in their fight against the eastern dragon. Sir Bedivere was still breathing, still alive, but one of his arms ended in a bloody stump instead of in a hand.

“By Chaos…” Arthur whispered in shock and horror, and Lancelot felt his head spin. Next to him, he felt Galahad slump once more in his seat.

  
 _We won indeed, my young Galahad,_ Lancelot thought. _But at what cost?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, we're halfway done!
> 
> So there's Eggman as King Ælle, who did not feature in Arthurian legends, but King Arthur was said to have defended his kingdom from the Saxons, and King Ælle historically fits in the same time bracket as when Arthur was supposed to have reigned, as far as my research shows.
> 
> Also, in Arthurian legends, Sir Bedivere does, indeed, lose a hand and spends the rest of his days fighting with just one.
> 
> This chapter was a behemoth to write and it didn't come out exactly how I'd hoped, so perhaps I'll edit it at a future date.
> 
> Next chapter: Out of options and down two knights while the confrontation against the Saxon Empire lingers on the horizon, Arthur goes to Nimue for help and acquires Excalibur.
> 
> Edit: NOW THERE'S MORE ART! https://blackie-draws-sonic.tumblr.com/post/616169208720556032/im-posting-this-again-because-it-didnt-appear-in


	14. Chapter 14

A light drizzle fell from the sky as Arthur set out for Misty Lake, flanked by Sir Gawain and Sir Galahad. Ordinarily he would go on his own, his speed more than enough to finish the task in no time at all, but with Caliburn out of commission until Smithy and his new assistants finished the repairs, he needed the protection. Typically Lancelot would accompany him, but… 

Arthur frowned as he thought of his friend, the memory of two nights before still fresh in his mind. Never had he seen Lancelot like that, so vicious and then so vulnerable, not even when he had returned from his vacation so many years ago with deadened eyes and a baby in his arms. Arthur had heard the long and short of that visit to Corbenic, but Lancelot had done his best to not let it affect him, or at least, not to show how deeply affected he really was. It was always a hard pill to swallow, Arthur figured as he ducked under the shelter of a tree as drops began to fall from the sky, to realize that the people around you were all putting on fronts, just as you were. Arthur, for all he acted, did not feel noble, or royal, or like a grand leader 一 he had the heart of a boy who yearned for adventure and fun, but it was hidden behind a persona who could take the title of King and make it work for the benefit of all. Arthur sometimes felt like a fraud, and after seeing his friend break down, he had no doubts that Lancelot had moments like that as well.

At the very least, he was resting now. Arthur supposed he should count himself fortunate that none of his knights had perished, though some were worse for wear than others. Sir Bedivere still hadn’t woken up after losing his hand, Sir Lamorak had a mild concussion, and despite his insistence that he was fine, Sir Lancelot had collapsed as a result from the energy loss from his reckless decision to drop his power limiting rings just the day before. The three were to stay inside the castle until they proved well again, and with the heavy loss in numbers and the savage attack on his trusty blade, Arthur had to make a decision he had hoped he would never need to make, hence his journey to see Nimue with Gawain and Galahad in tow.

To his side, he heard Gawain curse as his boot got caught in mud. “Lousy weather,” he growled as he ripped his foot from the ground, and Arthur couldn’t help but agree. The damp, chilly air was doing his wounds no favors, and as the rain began to fall in earnest, he wished that he had taken the journey alone and completed it in a flash, even with the risks involved.

Then the water ceased to pour, and when Arthur looked up, he saw the drops from the sky bounce off of a dome of clear blue energy. He couldn’t hold back his laugh. “Well done, Sir Galahad,” he praised, and Gawain grunted his approval.

“It wouldn’t do us well for our armor to rust,” Galahad reasoned, but his smile was open and bright at the recognition. “Smithy has so much to work on already.”

“I’ll say,” Gawain agreed, wiping his mud-stained boot on some grass. “How is it that he only now has apprentices?”

“When it comes to a trade, people don’t seem to want to work under someone younger than them,” Arthur said, remembering how difficult it had been to find willing apprentices once his brother had finally come to him and admitted that he needed the help. It took a long while, but now the fox had the assistance of a purple swallow and a red wolf, whose names unfortunately still escaped Arthur’s memory. “At any rate, with the three of them, Caliburn will be fixed before long.”

“But not soon enough,” Gawain reminded him, and Arthur’s good mood soured as he remembered why he was going to Misty Lake in the first place. He had no sword. He was down several knights. The confrontation with King Ælle was on the horizon, and it was a battle he couldn’t afford to lose.

Merlina's plot from just a few months ago was still fresh in his mind, and he was playing right into her plan by obtaining Excalibur, but he refused to hold on to the sword longer than necessary and tempt her. She was already disgraced… Arthur couldn't bear to cause her any more sorrow.

"Come, let us go," he ordered, and his companions travelled along in silence the rest of the way.

* * *

The rain had stopped before they reached their destination, and the grass was slick and damp as Arthur approached the edge of the lake. The mist lifted, and there was Lady Nimue, picture perfect as always, serene like a cloud in a clear blue sky, but upon seeing the look on Arthur’s face and his choice in companions, a crease of worry marred her brow.

“A pleasure to see you as always, Your Majesty,” she greeted anyhow.

“The pleasure’s all mine, Lady Nimue,” Arthur returned, eager to get the formalities out of the way.

“I did not expect a visit,” the rose-colored lady remarked, folding her hands in front of her gown, “and as good as it is to see an old friend, you have always been very good about warning me ahead of time. Has… something happened?”

Her eyes zeroed in on Galahad, and Arthur inferred her unasked question.

“Lancelot is alive,” he assured her, “and is resting.” Yet his statement only seemed to aggravate the look of worry on Nimue’s face. With a sigh, Arthur recounted the events of the past few days, of the siege on their land by the Saxons and their new king, of Caliburn’s damages, and Lancelot’s brave and reckless acts. As he spoke, the air around them seemed to still, not a breeze from any direction, and the only sound came from Arthur as he struggled to give a complete but concise account of what had happened.

“And with Caliburn out of commission and several of my men recovering, I’ll need some assistance if I wish to end this war soon.”

He didn’t say Excalibur’s name; he was still loath to ask for the most powerful of all swords, the potential instrument to the demise of a free world, the bearer of immortality, the most deceitful curse in existence, and Nimue’s prized possession. He once again thought it odd that Nimue, who could not leave her lake, but rather send illusions of herself across the land, would own such a powerful and terrible weapon; was she not a lady, known for her serenity, peacefulness and compassion?

Yet when he saw the storm brewing behind furious green eyes, it was enough to strike fear into his heart before she even spoke a word.

“He thinks,” she said, so softly yet so full of malice that her words cut through the air like a newly-sharpened blade, “that he can come to _my home_ , take over _my land_ , and hurt _my son, my friends, and my family?_ ” Her voice started to rise in pitch, and ripples formed around her feet, small and shaky but promising something far worse to come. Nimue’s hands were clenched together in front of her, her typically peaceful face breaking into a scowl, and Arthur felt himself take a step back in shock. He had never seen Nimue angry, and neither had Galahad, it seemed, as the silver hedgehog reached out a trembling hand to his grandmother before withdrawing it. Even fearless Gawain appeared unsettled, gripping at Galatine as he watched Nimue seethe, stirring up the elements like Mother Nature herself before she let out a scream and drove her hand down into the waters of her lake.

The sword rose, pulled up as though by an invisible string with a heavenly light shining from it as it parted the water on its way up. Once it had entirely surfaced, Nimue grabbed it by the scabbard and all but shoved the hilt at Arthur, face grim and eyes stony. “King Arthur, do you swear to use Excalibur for the good of the people of our land, to protect them from danger and to fight for their freedom?”

It wasn’t a question, it was a disguised order; Arthur knew them well. It wasn’t as though there was any uncertainty to begin with, either.

Arthur’s hand clasped around Excalibur’s hilt, and he felt the light of the divine glow within him. “I do.”

“Then take it,” Nimue commanded, letting go of the scabbard, “and don’t bring it back until you’ve made sure King Ælle pays for his crimes.”

The sword was heavy, almost exceedingly so, yet Arthur kept his grip on it as he attached the scabbard to his belt. Nimue was much stronger than she looked, it seemed, and Arthur was struck once again by how yet another person he knew was so good at putting up a front while their true nature lay dormant. Nimue, the gentle lady of the lake, had the heart of a warrior, and still she remained trapped, far from any good she could do.

As she looked at him, eyes upset and still aflame from her earlier rage, Arthur knew that this was a promise he wanted to keep with every fiber of his being. He wanted to defeat Ælle, not just for Avalon, but for Nimue. For Lancelot. For Bedivere. For every individual person, and not just the kingdom as a whole.

Nimue cleared her throat and smoothed out the skirts of her gown, looking to Galahad and softening her gaze, looking more like the lady they were accustomed to. “I hope I haven’t frightened you, my dear Galahad.”

“N-Not at all, Grandmother!” the silver knight lied, prompting a chuckle from Nimue, who finally looked over to Gawain.

“And you… Are you the one responsible for taking down the dragon by my home, by His Majesty’s account?”

“I am,” Gawain returned proudly, crossing his arms and nodding.

“Then you have my thanks.” Nimue curtsied, having completely returned to a picture of poise and grace. “I would have objected greatly to such a beast disturbing my home.”

As his companions exchanged pleasantries, reforming some sense of normalcy to their situation, Arthur reexamined the sword he had been given. The sensation of light inside his soul hadn’t diminished, an odd yet exhilarating feeling, and one that he feared could become addictive. Was that the promise of immortality? The assurance that he could not be harmed? Though Arthur’s stomach still turned at the thought of never reaching his own end, he was glad that, at the very least, he would derive some enjoyment from the whole ordeal.

Now he just needed to make good on his word to give King Ælle hell.

* * *

It was the very next day that Arthur set out, head-to-toe in golden armor with Nimue’s sword at his side. On his right, Sir Gawain marched, the picture of force and power, and on his left, Sir Percival strode, focused straight ahead. Behind him were his knights, his army, his people, all banded together in their fight against their invaders…

...Well, almost all. They were still missing two very important knights, one irreplaceable sword, and one warrior Arthur wished he could have seen in battle.

Sir Bedivere had opened his eyes that morning, much to the joy of Arthur and several other knights, though he was unable to stand after spending so much time unconscious. He had been in no state to fight, and Arthur’s command for him to stay behind was met with no objections.

Sir Lancelot, on the other hand, was much less willing to listen to reason. He had protested, argued, struggled for his place in the army, yet he was still so exhausted he could barely stand. In the end, Arthur had to order his stubborn friend to stay put, and though he knew it had been the right thing to do, the look of pain and shame on Lancelot’s face haunted him.

As for Nimue… Arthur could only imagine her, sitting in wait for any news of the battle, unable to join in.

That was why Arthur was dedicating this battle to them, the three warriors who, by all means, should have been there by his side, and to the sword who he had always counted on since the day he had drawn him from the stone.

At the very least, Sir Lamorak had recovered enough to go into battle with them. He travelled behind his sister, visor lowered and twin blades drawn, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. All of them were on edge, ready to end this war before it could truly start and turn into something terrible, following their leader who shone like the sun in the sky and ran like the wind.

* * *

All around them was the sound of metal clashing and roars of pain and anger, and Arthur could see every one of his knights giving their all.

He could see Gawain and Percival, his legendary knights, living up to their names and titles as they struck down foe after foe, with Gawain gliding up above and Percival sweeping the grounds in a vortex of flames. He could see Galahad, controlling his powers more and more as enemies were flung far and wide. There was Bors and Kay, giants among men, with enough power to shatter the ground beneath their feet. There was Gareth and Gaheris, with peaceful hearts yet enough power within that they could tame the gods themselves. Tristan and Lamorak leapt into action, twin blades slicing through the air as they overwhelmed their opponents. Geraint was pulling no punches as those around him found themselves victims to the illusions his powers created, unable to defend themselves from his inevitable attacks.

They were all fighting so bravely and so nobly against a much larger army, and Arthur couldn’t have been prouder.

A beam of magic shot past his ear and his focus snapped right back to his own opponent. King Ælle wasn’t a physical fighter, that much was obvious from the moment he came into view, levitating on some sort of seat, with thin arms and legs that didn’t seem to fit with his round body, yet it was clear in a second that he was a master of dark magic once the first few blasts were fired. Excalibur had deflected them, and Arthur thought back to Caliburn, in pieces, and grit his teeth as he realized that the man in front of him was fully responsible.

He took Nimue's promise to heart; it was time to make him pay.

"Stand still, you blue pest!" the greedy tyrant roared, shooting beam after beam of energy at Arthur, but all he got in response was a laugh, because for the first time in a long time, Arthur was fighting and having fun. How long had it been since he could show off his dodging skills? How long had it been since he could rile up his opponent, inviting their fury until they lost their temper? Arthur knew he shouldn't draw the battle out for longer than necessary, not when there were people fighting with their lives on the line for him, but he cherished the long-missed rush of euphoria that came with running circles around a foe.

Arthur dashed forward, tucking himself into a ball as he surged before impacting the floating seat keeping his enemy above ground. He heard a loud crack and a cry of shock, and grinned as he unfurled himself, striking upwards with Excalibur and sending Ælle flying up into the sky. Arthur looked upwards, whistling as he saw the other king turn into a speck against the clouds before plummeting back to the ground, his seat shattering and his body rolling over in a tangle of limbs.

“Ready to give up?” Arthur taunted, stepping toward his opponent. He had had his fun, and now it was time to finish the job.

He didn’t count on King Ælle playing possum, nor did he anticipate the sudden magical sneak attack by a man who, by all counts, should have been knocked out cold from a fall like that, but even with the fastest reflexes in the land, Arthur couldn’t dodge the deadly bolt of energy shot from Ælle’s fingers, and he closed his eyes, bracing for the impact…

…

... _Oh. Right. The scabbard._

“How are you still alive?!” Ælle shrieked, loud enough for everyone around them to cease fighting and stare in stunned silence at the two kings, one hardy enough to survive a massive fall from the heavens and the other blessed with invincibility by the immortals. It didn’t sit entirely right with Arthur; his invulnerability felt a lot like cheating, but this wasn’t a place for a fair fight. This was a fight where they had everything to lose and nothing to gain except for their continued freedom.

“I’m alive because my people need me,” Arthur stated, loud and clear. Under his visor, he grinned 一 it had been too long since he could deliver a heroic speech to an enemy! “And while I’m still needed, I refuse to fall!” He held out Excalibur, aiming it at his adversary’s body, and then striking the ground underneath Ælle’s armpit. “ _This_ is for Caliburn!” he declared, thinking of his trusty sword who had been with him through thick and thin, through all his battles before this one. He struck a second time, once again on the ground, on the other side. “ _This_ is for Bedivere!” A victim to the dragons this man had sent against them, a piece of him missing, one of the first knights he had ever named and a loyal companion. Strike three, to the right of Ælle’s head. “ _This_ is for Lancelot!” His first knight, his best friend, his right hand man, pushed to his absolute limit to fight against this man’s greed. “And _this!_ ” A final strike, to the left of Ælle’s head, close enough to nick his ear and draw blood, “Is for Nimue!” For an eternity of isolation, of inaction, of yearning and of restraint.

_This battle is for all of you who couldn’t be here with me today._

“And there are so many more,” he barreled on, raising his blade one more time before clasping it with both hands, the point directly above King Ælle’s heart, “so many people who have died or hurt because of you… I should kill you now and free everyone from your greed…”

All sounds of fighting had ceased; everyone waited with bated breath to see what the Knight of the Wind would do.

“...but I’m a better man than you. I’ll give you a choice.”

He heard it and he felt it, a mix of relief and violent disapproval, but Arthur’s focus stayed on Ælle. He would never be able to please everyone, so he might as well appeal to his own judgement.

“Retreat, take your men, and never return to Avalon, and know that you ever invade one of our neighboring kingdoms, we will not hesitate to take you down again. Should you ever set foot in our kingdom again, I will forgo any mercy and kill you where you stand.”

“And if I refuse?” Ælle snapped back, but he knew he was trapped. Arthur could hear it in his voice.

“Then I kill you here and now. What will it be?”

The air was still and silent once more while Ælle weighed his options, and Arthur kept his hands steady, hoping his bluff would work. King Ælle believed him to be invincible, yet Arthur doubted his greed would remain squelched for long; the truth was, Arthur hoped he would have another opportunity to go head to head with him, to have an enemy kingdom he could always count on being at the root of his problems, rather than only a confusing mess of semi-allied kingdoms who were ready to join or drop Avalon when it suited them. A common enemy. Something to bring them all together.

Whether it was the right thing to do or not, Arthur didn’t know, but he knew his own heart better than he knew the future. He was already known for being kind-hearted, having spared Merlina despite her treason, so giving Ælle a choice between certain death and an opportunity to better himself wasn’t entirely out of left field, yet the longer the other king considered it, the more uneasy Arthur got. He thought of Nimue and his promise to her; was this breaking it, by not taking the step to make sure Ælle never hurt someone again? Would Caliburn, Lancelot or Bedivere object? Was Ælle truly irredeemable, or was it just easy to think he was?

“I choose…”

Green eyes snapped up to look at Ælle’s face, his eyes shrouded in shadows as a sly grin broke out onto his face.

_“...Neither!”_

And in a puff of smoke, he disappeared.

Cries of shock and rage came from all sides as Arthur struggled with what had just happened. King Ælle had left, just like that? Had left his army to die? The sounds of battle restarted as the Saxons either stood their ground or fled, and in the middle of it all, Arthur stood, Excalibur gripped tightly between both hands, uncertain what this meant for the future of Avalon and the Saxon Empire, and his heart sank as he realized that, with his own greed, he had ultimately failed in his promise to Nimue.

* * *

It was a victory. Not a total victory, but a victory nonetheless. Arthur’s men had driven out the Saxons before night fell, and even with the looming threat of King Ælle still very much alive, there wasn’t much the man could do without regrouping and planning ahead, so when his knights decided to celebrate, Arthur cheered with them.

Yet as he walked through the halls of his castle, he knew there were still a few things he needed to do.

“Your Majesty.”

Arthur’s head whipped from side to side, seeing no one, until Sir Bedivere materialized into view. The king let out a breath and smiled at his knight. “It seems you’re feeling better.”

“Much, thank you.” The chameleon bowed his head, and Arthur’s eyes couldn’t help but drop to his wrist where his arm abruptly ended. It would take a lot of getting used to. Bedivere was always so controlled, so measured in everything he did and said, and Arthur wondered how he really felt about his injury.

The fact that he was already testing out his abilities was an answer in and of itself.

“I suppose I can tell you in person, we’ve driven out the Saxons from our land,” Arthur announced, eager to stop that train of thought.

Bedivere raised his head. “And the enemy king?” Arthur averted his gaze, wondering how to explain his failure, but all too quickly Bedivere seemed to come to his own conclusion. “I see. No matter, we will be able to defeat him if he ever comes back.”

Arthur relaxed. Even though he hadn’t delivered the victory he had hoped for, with redemption or with death, his knights were still on his side. “I only wish that you could have been there with us.”

“I was hospitalized. I would have not been much use, nor will I be until I learn to fight with one hand.”

There was something very refreshing about Bedivere’s utter refusal to fall into self-pity. Still, Arthur was determined to make sure he remained a part of this victory, and when the idea came to him, he didn’t hesitate to put it forth.

“There is still something I need done. Tell me, do you feel well enough to travel?”

Only the smallest shift in Bedivere’s eyes betrayed any sort of surprise. “Perhaps. I do feel better, though I shouldn’t push myself too hard. How far would this be?”

“To Misty Lake,” Arthur answered, detaching Excalibur from his hip and holding it in front of him. “I’ll be needed at Camelot for a while. Reports, plans, follow-ups, royal addresses, all those things, but I need to return this to the Lady of the Lake. Would you be willing to take this to her in my stead, and let her know that I will send her a message when time allows?”

Bedivere regarded the sword, yet did not take it. “Sire, if I may, would it not be more prudent to keep it until you have a weapon once more?”

“I can borrow a practice sword from Smithy if I need to,” Arthur replied. “I don’t think there should be any more attacks for a while, anyhow. King Ælle considers me immortal, after all.”

The chameleon remained silent for a moment longer before reaching out his one hand. “If you are certain.”

“I am,” Arthur affirmed, pressing the scabbard into Bedivere’s palm, and even the highly-disciplined knight couldn’t hide his amazement at the sensation of holy power that touching the scabbard brought. “And I am certain that keeping Excalibur on our side for longer than necessary is a bad idea.”

He let go of the sword, and immediately had to fight back the urge to grip onto it, to take it back, to regain that sense of absolute power and tranquility. It was addictive, and that was why he felt he could entrust the task to Bedivere, who wanted so little and was in such good control of himself.

“...I’m inclined to agree.” Sir Bedivere bowed to him once more before straightening up. “I’ll be back before sunrise,” he promised, gripping the sword and disappearing from view. “Farewell, my liege.”

“Farewell,” Arthur echoed, waving at the empty space before him, but he knew that Bedivere was already on his way out. He let out a sigh, eyes sliding shut, suddenly feeling exhausted from the sudden shift to being devoid of the holy sword’s light.

“You were eager to be rid of it.”

Arthur bit back a groan. He had hoped this confrontation would be avoidable, but his eyes opened and sure enough, Merlina was a few feet away from him, looking upset.

“I was. That sword… something that powerful is enough to make a man like me go mad.”

“Are you sure that was the reason? Or do you still not trust me?”

“Merlina…”

The truth was, Arthur wasn’t sure how much he could trust her. Merlina’s reaction was hardly doing her any favors, yet Arthur hadn’t been lying, either. The longer he had held on to Excalibur, the harder it felt to let it go. The idea of ruling forever was still abhorrent to him, yet the way the scabbard had quelled his anxieties and filled him with confidence had swayed him too much for him to feel comfortable.

“That sword is dangerous, and if I were to keep it, I’m sure I would have done something I would have regretted.” Arthur approached his wizard and offered her his hand. “If my haste has offended you, I’m deeply sorry,” he offered, and it seemed to mollify his friend, who slowly took his hand in hers.

“I’m sorry, too. I’ve just… heard so many nasty things. No one trusts me, nor do I blame them, and yet…”

“It’s too much sometimes?”

Merlina swallowed and squeezed his hand. “Exactly. And it’s still so hard when I still see the same vision--”

“Then I’ll do my best to make sure it doesn’t happen, without any magic swords to make me go crazy. How about that?”

Merlina’s lips twitched as though she were fighting off a smile, yet her mood became somber quickly enough. “The Round Table is divided, as a fight breaks out between Sirs Lancelot and Gawain.”

“So keep an eye on them,” Arthur summed up, “and make sure they play nice.”

“I fear it won’t be that simple,” Merlina responded. “I’ve never seen the cause of the fight, but the outcome is always painful. After the Round Table splits, another war begins, this time against the vile Mordred… your son.” At Arthur’s silence, she finished her premonition. “He strikes you down, and your rule comes to a swift end.”

Though it wasn’t the first time he had heard these words, the concept of having a _son_ was still something that Arthur had trouble wrapping his head around. “So just make sure Lancelot and Gawain don’t do anything rash, and don’t have a son. Sounds easy enough.”

“Please, Your Majesty!” Merlina suddenly gripped his hand so tightly that Arthur had to bite back a yelp. “Please take this seriously!”

“I am! I am, I swear! Merlina, please, I won’t be able to fix everything overnight, but I _am_ taking your warnings to heart, and if I suspect anything is going the way you think it is, you shall be the first I will tell.”

A look passed between the two, an uncertain, sad look between two friends who still cared for each other, yet didn’t fully trust the other. A moment or two passed by in silence before their hands let go and fell to their sides, and Arthur couldn’t bear to leave things as they were.

“I’ll do my best if you do yours. How about that?”

A bittersweet smile ghosted on Merlina’s features as she held on to her staff. “I… I suppose I can do that.”

It would take some time, but they would figure it out.

* * *

“Lancelot?”

The room was quiet, not a light in view, save for the moon shining brightly through the window. Arthur could see the silhouette of his friend, sitting in bed, looking out to the sky.

“...We’re back.”

“I noticed.”

_Oh no, he wasn’t happy._

“...We won.”

“I gathered as much. Congratulations, Your Majesty.”

Arthur walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. He felt Lancelot tense beside him, but he didn’t push him away.

“You’re angry.”

“I’m…” A sigh. “...you did what you ought to have done.”

“But?”

“But I still should have been there with you.”

“Lance, if this is about being the Ultimate Knight, then--”

“It’s not,” Lancelot interjected, and Arthur was stunned into silence. Lancelot never interrupted him; it was always the other way around. “I don’t doubt your trust in me and my abilities. I don’t question the title you gave me, or how much I deserve it. If there’s ever a time I do not, you will remove it from me… I trust you to do that.”

“Then what?” Arthur asked. “I was not about to be hurt in battle, for I had your mother’s sword.”

“I’m aware, but… to be here… to know nothing while I know that everyone else is out there, fighting for Avalon…”

Arthur hummed, glad he was able to finally understand. “It’s hard to be away from the front lines, isn’t it?”

Lancelot gripped the blanket on his bed. “Unbearably so. I took a vow to protect my kingdom, and to not be able to do my part is--”

“You did your part,” Arthur reminded him. “You saved my life.”

Once again, Arthur felt Lancelot tense up, presumably from the memory from only a few nights ago, before he leaned over, resting his back to Arthur’s, and Arthur let it happen. Something between the two of them had shifted since that night, something Arthur couldn’t quite put his finger on, but Lancelot seemed so much more raw, so open, so real. It was like a glimpse into what his friend really was like at his core, and Arthur wanted him to feel comfortable enough to embrace it, duty and manners be damned.

“When you put it that way… I suppose I can’t regret it.”

Arthur laughed, a warm, light feeling glowing within him. “You’d better not! You saved my life, so now you’re stuck with me.”

Lancelot let out a low hum. “There are worse fates, perhaps.”

Arthur snorted. “Oh Lance, you wound me, truly. Not even Excalibur could shield me from your sharp tongue.”

“Indeed, my words are my true weapon. Forget swords, I have laid waste to many a foe by my taunts.”

He said it so seriously that Arthur couldn’t keep his laughter down. He leaned against his friend’s back, taking a moment to appreciate that life could still have moments like these, simpler times in the middle of every new catastrophe.

“...It’s good to hear you laugh again.”

“Y-Yeah?” Arthur got out in between chuckles.

“Yes. When I thought that I might never hear it again…”

Lancelot’s voice trailed off, and the mood grew somber again. Arthur leaned his head back so that it also rested against Lancelot’s, reminding him that he was still there. In turn, he felt Lancelot lean against him, and the two sat in silence, supporting each other.

Arthur almost didn’t have the heart to tell him about his failure to stop King Ælle, but to tell Lancelot about the battle was the other reason why he had come. Still… he figured he could indulge himself, just a little longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur: Can't get killed by my son if I don't have a son!
> 
> Another very long, action-based chapter that I'm not entirely happy with, but the next few chapters are more character-focused, so hopefully those will be easier.
> 
> Featuring Wave the Swallow and Gadget the Wolf as Smithy's new assistants.
> 
> Next chapter: With the Saxon Empire still a threat and the need for political alliances brought to an all-time high, King Arthur is urged to find a wife.


	15. Chapter 15

Arthur wasn't one to linger on regrets. He didn't like to think of what could have been, what should have been, or stay stuck on a myriad of what-ifs that only proved to drag him down. He preferred to look forward, finding new ways to keep moving ahead, counting on time and effort to fix any issues that remained.

Even so, that didn't make the consequences to his actions any less hellish.

The public opinion of him rose and sunk in waves; people would love him one minute and hate him the next, and with the threat of the Saxons still lingering and the word spreading about his leniency, leading to King Ælle's escape, the public had soured their image of him. Every day he heard their grievances, and there was so little he could do when he was still directing the rebuilding efforts. He had dipped deep into the treasury, putting a dent in their funds to restore houses and roads and fields, and Arthur knew that, in order to replenish it and make sure they were prepared for any follow up attacks, he would need to raise taxes — another action that always proved to lower the public opinion of him.

His knights stood by him, yet he could tell many were unhappy with his actions on the battlefield. Some, like Sir Gawain, were frustrated but kept it mostly to himself. Others, like Sir Kay, were more open about how foolish he had been. Still others, like Sir Percival, were impossible to read. There was a tension between his knights, all of them on edge yet staying firm with their vows to follow their king… or at least, that had _been_ the case, before Sir Tristan's apparent desertion.

Sir Tristan had volunteered to do a task for her birthplace, the neighboring Acorn Kingdom. She was to fetch Princess Yseult from her home in the town of Holo and bring her over to King Mark of Acorn to be married. At first, it seemed as though the task had gone well; King Arthur had gotten the news that Tristan and Yseult had arrived unharmed, and that the wedding went on without a hitch, yet the next thing he knew, he was receiving word that both Tristan and Yseult had disappeared without a word, and were still missing. Without any word from Sir Tristan, Arthur knew that she would be labelled a deserter after a month had passed, and that, too, put a strain between his knights and the public with himself.

Even Nimue, who had projected her image to him once she had gotten his message, was disappointed in him, though she did her best to move past it. “To make a promise in the heat of anger is as good as not making a promise at all,” she had said to him, yet there had been a measured distance in her eyes that Arthur had never seen before, and didn’t wish to see again.

The public. His knights. Nimue. That wasn’t even touching on his advisors and other castle staff.

Everything felt like it was falling apart, and Arthur was fumbling to keep it all together between trying to rebuild Avalon, trying to improve his image to his people, and struggling with Tristan’s possible betrayal. It all would pass, and things would get better, he knew this, but in the thick of it all, Arthur couldn’t help but have his regrets.

Especially now, with Longclaw setting a stack of papers in front of him and the echoes of _that_ _word_ ringing in his ears.

“Lady Longclaw,” Arthur began, struggling to put his thoughts into polite words when it felt as though his stress was eating him alive. “I… erm, _we_ appreciate your thoughtfulness and… um, all this effort, but… _marriage_?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Longclaw returned, voice firm so that he would know that there was no room to argue. “With your own public turning against you and the Saxons still on our borders, a political alliance would help smooth things out immensely.”

“But…” Arthur ran his fingers through his quills and felt one break loose. Gripping it between his fingers, a fruitless endeavor to ignore the growing sense of dread within him, he looked at his advisor helplessly until she sighed and her stony gaze softened just a little.

“Your Majesty,” she explained, voice quieter and posture less rigid, though it did little to calm him down, “political alliances are a normal part of royal affairs. You needn’t think of it as a normal marriage, but rather as a way to keep up appearances with other kingdoms. With such an alliance, we will have more troops to send for, and when the time comes, troops to give as well. The more Avalon proves useful in this war, the more others will be willing to join us when we need them.”

Her words made sense, so Arthur nodded, yet his eyes stayed blank. He lifted the broken quill up to his face; already the royal blue was streaked with gray.

“As for Avalon’s people, times of rebuilding are times of high stress. People will find anything and anyone they can blame, and unfortunately, that will often be you. A celebration will do us wonders, and if your bride’s kingdom is willing to provide a dowry, we might be able to avoid another tax increase.”

Another nod. Arthur’s eyes shifted over to the stack of papers; many women, some royal, all noble, all eligible for marriage… yet the thought still crushed him like a vice.

Longclaw took a moment to study him before letting out a soft sigh. “We can speak more of this later, once you are feeling better.” Yet she didn’t leave right away, lingering by the king’s desk as though there was more she wished to say or do.

In the end, though, she bowed her head and dismissed herself once Arthur, still overcome with anxiety, failed to do so, leaving him alone with a repaired Caliburn in his chambers.

Arthur let out one shaky breath, and then another, and another, trying to get his mind back into the present. He knew that marriage wasn’t the end of his life, nor was it a bad idea given the circumstances, but he had never seen himself settling down at all. All his life he had coveted the idea of freedom, of never being chained down, of flying like the wind in the trees. Becoming king had been the first big hurdle to that inner yearning, and now with the idea that he was in a position where getting married was basically a necessity…

Arthur groaned and rested his face in his hands. Not only was getting married such a foreign and terrifying concept, but marrying someone he barely knew? That was all but unthinkable. What if he married someone terrible and had to live shackled to her for the rest of his years? What if he married a romantic who believed him to be the love of her life, only to disappoint her again and again? What if he married someone and absolutely nothing good came of it, no alliances, no dowry, no celebration… 

If Sir Tristan truly had deserted, he didn’t particularly blame her. Court life could be hell incarnate, and the idea of running off on his own into the wilderness seemed more and more tempting by the second.

But he couldn’t. As much as Arthur wanted to follow his heart, it was split in two, and one part would always belong in Avalon as its ruler. He was King Arthur, the Knight of the Wind, and he valued his people as well as his freedoms. He couldn’t let them down again.

With that in mind, he drew over the stack of files and looked at the topmost one, yet almost immediately his eyes glazed over and no words stuck. The same happened with the next one, and the next, and the next. It was page after page of lists of pedigrees and outstanding court manners and lists of talents that were just the same words over and over again. Arthur sat back in his chair and groaned.

“I take it the selection isn’t particularly inspiring?”

The corner of Arthur’s mouth twitched upwards. At least Caliburn was feeling good enough to banter.

“Hardly. How am I supposed to choose a bride when all these papers say the same thing?”

“If anything, that would make selection easier,” Caliburn returned. “Simply choose one at random and know that it is the same as any other.”

“Now now, Caliburn. Wasn’t it _you_ who taught me to put more thought into my actions?”

“I did, but not if it leads you to _inaction_. The longer you put this off, the less eligible women there will be, and you certainly aren’t getting younger either.”

“I should shatter you myself for speaking to me like that,” Arthur taunted, lifting his sword in the air, but it was in jest. Somehow, his trusty sword’s dry wit had calmed the storm in his mind, even if just a little, and with the low chuckle that escaped the hilt, it seemed as though he could tell.

“Please refrain, I don’t think your brother would appreciate it.”

Arthur set Caliburn on the table as he took another few papers and gave them a once-over, yet it was the same result. With a sigh, Arthur rested an elbow on the desk, looking out the window. “I never saw myself getting married,” he admitted.

“As king, it would have happened eventually,” Caliburn answered, and Arthur couldn’t bring himself to disagree. By all accounts, he should have seen this coming.

“All the same, these papers… They tell me nothing about these women. Not the things I wish to know.”

“Such as?” Caliburn prompted, and Arthur closed his eyes as he concentrated.

“Their dreams. Their aspirations. What they enjoy doing when it rains outside and they must stay in. What talents they have that don’t fit in with royal affairs. If they enjoy fighting or not. How they would describe their personality. How they speak. If they want kids or not…”

Merlina’s warning came back to him and it was like being pushed into an ice cold bath. Arthur’s eyes blinked open as he realized that this could very well be another step in the direction of her prediction. A son to strike him down.

“A more personal understanding,” Caliburn summarized, thankfully breaking Arthur’s train of thought.

“Yes. If I marry, especially for politics, I would want to marry someone I could get along with. Someone I could call a friend.”

_A friend._ His traitorous mind jumped to Lancelot, to Nimue, to Tristan, to Lamorak, to Gawain… Arthur shook all that away. He couldn’t afford to explore those thoughts, not when it would only lead to more hurt and confusion. Another sigh escaped him as he suddenly felt much heavier than before, and the next several papers met with the same glazed-over look. It was futile, nothing was there, these were all base concepts of women, not women as they were. Everything about the arrangement felt wrong; to force marriage on someone was wrong, but what choice did he have? Things couldn’t continue as they were, he had failed his people already, he couldn’t keep failing them because he was having hang-ups over signing an alliance because of what? The threat of lifelong companionship?

The next paper slid before him, and the word **‘adventure’** jumped out at him, clear as day. Arthur blinked and rubbed his eyes, and there it was in black and white.

“Did you find something new, Sire?”

“Maybe so,” Arthur replied, picking up the paper anew and reading in earnest. 

_A love of_ **_adventure_ ** _which has her often travelling, she is well-versed in foreign cultures…_

_A self-proclaimed_ **_‘treasure hunter’_** _, though all her exploits have been perfectly legal and purely for the benefit of her people…_

_Trained in court manners and the picture of elegance, also trained in languages, politics, foreign affairs,_ **_espionage_** _,_ **_self-defence_ ** _…_

“Sire? Your mouth is open.”

Arthur shut his mouth in a moment. “This one looks… _real_.” He read through the description again, almost laughing at how the writer had struggled to paint such a wild-hearted woman as an eligible queen-to-be, and yet she drew the most intrigue by a mile. Arthur turned over the page to see more information.

_Lady Guinevere of Cameliard, huh?_

She was a noblewoman from the Cameliard estate in the kingdom of Gawr Uchaf Nerth 一 commonly shortened to G.U.N, a highly militarized kingdom 一 which would prove useful in warfare endeavours. She was a few years Arthur’s senior, which surprised him; usually women were married off before they had reached their mid-twenties, yet this woman had managed to fend it off until thirty-three years of age. Arthur paused; he was already thinking of her as his first pick, yet he couldn’t help it. Out of all his options, she was by far the most interesting, so perhaps…

Well. He still didn’t know her. Still hadn’t spoken with her. If she did have a romantic heart, or a lover she wasn’t able to keep, he didn’t want to give her the wrong impression or force her into something she couldn’t stand. Just because he needed to didn’t mean that others had to as well.

He put Guinevere’s file beside Caliburn, deciding to come back to it later and make a more mindful choice on what to do, but as he kept reading page after uninspiring page, only hers made a lasting impression.

Arthur took out a pen and some paper and began to write. He would need to send a formal letter of interest, but before he did that, he wanted to write a personal letter. Something from him as a person and not him as a king. Something to relay his circumstances, something to ask his questions, and something to just say hello, how are you, who are you and is this something you would be okay with?

He would fold it up and slip it in the envelope alongside his letter of interest. If she didn’t respond, well… he supposed he had a stack of generic files he could choose from.

* * *

One day later, a carrier pigeon had arrived with an envelope embossed with the G.U.N. coat of arms.

Arthur’s hands ripped open the envelope, anxious to see what was inside, yet so eager to be done with this ordeal. Inside was a response to his notice of interest, a positive message from Lord and Lady of Cameliard thanking him for his interest in their daughter and claiming that, if he were to send an official proposal, she would accept immediately. There was no indication that Guinevere had even touched this response, and Arthur felt himself wilt…

...until he found another envelope hidden inside the larger one.

Eyes wide, he opened it up, and was greeted with fancy, loopy handwriting that took a moment to decipher, but it was clear that this was Guinevere’s true response.

_Dear Arthur P._

_I want to thank you very much for your message. It’s not often that I find someone who despises formal addresses as much as I do!_

A promising start. Arthur smiled a little bit to himself as he read on.

Guinevere sympathized with his predicament in her letter, but agreed that she would rather get to know him better before making any big decisions, despite her parents’ joy at being able to marry their rebellious daughter off to a king. She griped about her strained relationship with her parents for a good two paragraphs, and Arthur considered it a mark of someone who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, something he personally enjoyed, though he wasn’t sure how that would affect her popularity on the masses. 

She then proceeded to answer every one of his questions; on rainy days, she liked to stay inside and go over her studies in language and foreign affairs. She had aspired to become a spy for G.U.N. but due to her noble birth, she was urged to follow a higher class profession. She had refused, and spent years hunting treasures, most notably gems, which she coveted greatly. Her favorite color was pink. She loved fruits, especially stone fruits. She had once kicked a man through a wall and that had halted most claims for her hand in her twenties, and now in her thirties, her parents were all but desperate to marry her off. She was willing to adopt, perhaps, but she didn’t want children of her own.

Arthur poured over page after page of her personal letter, reading all of Guinevere’s stories with awe. This was a woman who was confident and capable on her own, which refreshed him greatly; the last thing he wanted was someone dependent on him. When it came to her turn to ask questions, he found himself reaching for a pen of his own. She wanted to know his favorite gem ( _emerald, easily_ ), his favorite food ( _sausage with bean stew poured over it, with a slice or two of bread_ ), his greatest adventure ( _his quest for Caliburn? Or the time he had protected Smithy from those bears? Or maybe the time he had sneaked into Merlina’s quarters and had tried to cast a spell or two on his own? Or maybe--_ ), what he would want to be doing if he wasn’t a king ( _a wanderer, perhaps a messenger, free as the wind and always finding his way forward…_ )

Before long, his reply was almost as long as hers, and he laughed. It was rare to pull so much writing out of him, yet she had asked questions that sparked delight in him. He paused in writing, stretching out his fingers, figuring that he should finish reading her letter before he completed his response. She ended the letter with new coordinates, explaining that it was a place where she could get personal mail without hiding it under the guise of more formal letters, and Arthur heaved a sigh of relief. The last thing he wanted was to keep in contact through Guinevere’s parents.

As he finished up his own letter, adding in some responses to her stories and a few new questions of his own, he felt better than he had in a long while.

It felt like he and Guinevere could be friends.

* * *

For almost two weeks, the two wrote to each other daily, and every time, the responses were staggeringly long and a delight to read and reply to. Arthur found himself anticipating Guinevere’s letters as the day came to a close.

They had settled into a rhythm; Arthur’s carrier pigeons were some of the fastest in the land, but they still needed time to rest and eat before going back to their job. Arthur sent his response out late at night, where it would arrive at G.U.N. at sunrise. Guinevere would send her reply mid-morning, and Arthur would receive it by nightfall. Every night before bed, he would read and laugh and write his response, enjoying the rapport he was building with this woman. It was a small escape from the pressures of day-to-day life, where everything seemed like it was grinding to a halt with every little issue brought to light, and the only semblance of progress was him telling Longclaw that he was ‘looking in to it’ whenever she asked for an update on the marriage situation. Arthur knew that he should bring the subject up again to Guinevere, but he was enjoying himself in what they had right then. He enjoyed writing to her, reading her gaudy handwriting 一 she dotted the letter _i_ with a heart of all things! 一 and just finding a new friend in the middle of all the chaos around him.

One night, however, Guinevere’s reply was a single page, and it went right to the point.

_I understand that time is of the essence for you, and it has become the case here for me as well. My parents, having not heard back from you, have decided that I am a lost cause and aim to send me off to a convent if I fail to marry before the spring ends. Should you send a formal proposal, I will happily accept it. I believe we will get along well, we both understand the circumstances for this marriage, and I would be delighted to leave G.U.N. for a change of scene. My parents could hardly complain about me marrying a king, either!_

_Politically, I believe this will be a good move for both of us. We’ve both agreed that we wanted a life of adventure, and between us I believe that we might be able to find times for one of us to run free while the other governs the people. I am an expert at foreign affairs, and I’ve longed for an opportunity to show that I am capable of leading something much larger than myself. This is an opportunity for us both._

_I am very sorry to be springing this on you all of a sudden, yet as you can see, my circumstances have drastically changed. I’ve read your words enough that I am confident that a union between us will benefit us both, and that we will enjoy a friendly bond that will make this situation easier for both of us to handle._

And, well, what else could Arthur do but the best option in a terrible situation? Between his own kingdom breaking at the seams and Guinevere’s disguised call for help, there wasn’t much of an option.

He sent out his letter, telling Guinevere that he would pass his decision to propose by his advisors first thing in the morning, and if all went well, provide his public announcement as well as send his official letter of intent to her parents. As he fell into bed, staring up at the ceiling, he felt the strain of anxiety on his mind and body as he realized that this was it. He was getting married.

But he thought of Guinevere and her long stories and her good humor and independence, and as he closed his eyes, willing for sleep to come to him, he managed to reassure himself that it wouldn’t be that bad.

It wouldn’t be so bad.

And once the morning came, he set out to do what he said. After everything that had transpired, it was time to do something right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta make the best of a bad situation before the stress kills you, right Arthur?
> 
> Folks, I just want to say thank you all so much. This piece of mine has broken the 50 kudos milestone, and I am just so grateful and happy that people are having fun reading this. It means so much to me, and I want to thank you all, from the bottom of my heart, for that kind of support.
> 
> So. Lady Guinevere finally shows up. You can probably guess who it is, and let me just say that yes, she is another one of my favorites. Probably THE favorite if I'm being honest with myself, and it only took fifteen chapters for her to show up.
> 
> I got a bit lazy with names when it came to the Tristan and Yseult side-plot (which will resolve itself, don't worry!), but I chose three Welsh words for G.U.N, given that Guinevere was a Welsh lady with Roman ancestry. Gawr Uchaf Nerth means, if I'm not mistaken, Giant Upper Strength/Power. Fitting for a military-heavy place, right?
> 
> Next chapter: Lancelot volunteers to fetch Guinevere from G.U.N. and deals with a lot of conflicting emotions.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm editing this at 1 in the morning and there's 7000 words so this might be one to rework at a later date.
> 
> Also Lancelot gets his hand held a lot in this chapter and you know what, good, he needs something nice.

It had been a very strange few weeks, to say the least.

The sun shone high in the sky, promising summer in the near future, and Lancelot felt his armor heat up underneath it like an oven, though he did nothing to stop it. He kept attaching the cart to the horses, mind buzzing with thoughts too loud for him to bear. He had spent longer than he had liked recovering, and in the quiet of his room, he had more than enough time to think about his most recent revelation regarding the man he still called his best friend. 

What a fool he was. A fool for not realizing it sooner. A fool for allowing it to happen. Yet the more he thought about it, the more his feelings over the years made sense; the warm pride he felt when Arthur stood triumphant, the unconditional devotion, the admiration, the concern, the desire to remain by his side… All, surely, the signs of the most loyal of knights, and yet there was a layer underneath, a layer that wasn't necessary yet bolstered all of those feelings, and Lancelot couldn't tell when that layer had added itself to the pile.

It was love. It was many, many different kinds of love, and some were more treacherous than others.

Lancelot sighed heavily as he fixed another fastening to the horse's saddle, mind wandering to the past week. Arthur had seemed so tense, pushed to his absolute limit that every night he would all but run to his chambers and shut the door behind him, and Lancelot hadn’t been able to help. He couldn't help him at all, and it drove him mad. He wanted to free Arthur from his burdens, to rip away the tension from his soul until his green eyes shone with that wild, youthful glow that was as much a part of him as any other. Seeing those eyes dull with panic, his blue quills now tinged with gray, Arthur looked so far away from the spirited youth who had conquered his loyalty within one day of knowing him, and Lancelot had no idea what to do.

Day by day, Arthur had looked more and more lost, only somewhat returning to his old self in the evenings before he shut himself away. Many times Lancelot had stood by his door, debating on whether or not he should knock, but he never did; realizing the extent of his feelings had made him very aware of their presence, and now it was impossible to even stand beside his king without his heart beating faster than it should, without feeling the odd swoop of nerves tingle in his gut. He had decided to hide, like a coward, while he figured this all out.

And now Arthur was to be married, and Lancelot, still struggling with his blossoming feelings, had felt his heart tear in half.

_ A fool. Always a damn fool. _

He had never expected Arthur to settle down, even with his status as king. He had always counted on Arthur to be such a marvellous king, the greatest in history, such that he would never need to procure a political alliance, and Arthur himself had never seemed keen on the idea of marriage regardless. Perhaps Lancelot had counted on that always being the case; just his king, ruling over his kingdom with his knights bound to him.

He was a fool, again, to think that it would be that simple forever.

He tugged on the cart, making sure it was secured well, and once he was satisfied with his work, he pushed up his visor, wiping sweat from his face. When all the announcements and preparations were made for the alliance and marriage between Avalon and G.U.N, the only thing that remained was to bring the bride-to-be over to Camelot, and Lancelot had volunteered to fetch her right away. Though he was loath to leave his king's side yet again, he knew Arthur would be more cautious now than ever, and well-guarded. He needed the time away to collect his thoughts a little more, and he wanted to check in person whether this Guinevere would be a suitable spouse for Arthur, like any concerned friend would do.

Lancelot closed his eyes, feeling the sting of sweat in them. None of this sat well with him at all, but what could he do about it? This wasn't his decision to make. Avalon would have a queen soon enough, and he would remain the Ultimate Knight, just another member of the Round Table. He knew it was fruitless to pine over Arthur, to resent his upcoming marriage, but very rarely did emotion listen to logic. In one way or another, he would have to move on.

_ But by Chaos did it hurt. _

"Father!"

Lancelot's eyes blinked open, and there was Galahad, proving once again to be the beacon of light in a world growing darker and darker as the older knight felt his tension begin to ease. His young son zipped over through the air, landing on the ground in front of him. "I'm glad I made it in time! Will you be leaving soon?"

"I will," Lancelot confirmed. "You were on patrol this morning, were you not?"

"I was! It was me and Sir Lamorak. He's very capable, but he speaks so roughly. It's hard to believe he is Percival's brother!"

“I knew him when he was but a lad like yourself. He is much calmer now, if you can believe it.”

Galahad looked at him with wide eyes. “I believe you, though I can hardly imagine it!” Lancelot nodded slowly in response, eyes glazing over as he thought back to his youth, when he was undergoing knight training and Lamorak was loud and insufferable, Kay was obnoxious, Bedivere was reclusive as a ghost, Tristan had shown no signs of being a deserter, and Geraint… well, Geraint had always hated him, and that would never change. And by his side, Arthur fought, Caliburn held aloft, critiquing every move he made so that every evening he would hear his friend and his blade squabbling, and Elaine was still alive, and the future had looked bright and open and--

His son reached forth and gripped at his hand with both of his. “Father, will you be gone very long? It’s not been long since you’ve been on your feet again, and… well I… I want to know you’ll be okay.”

\--and the past was past. The past did not have his son, or his on-and-off rivalry with Gawain, or the peak of Smithy’s brilliance and companionship. He held Galahad’s hands with his own, glad that, for once, his visor was still up and he would be able to look his son fully in the eye. “G.U.N. is a three day trip by horse. Should nothing go wrong, you will see me in a week.”

“Go wrong?” Galahad’s grip tightened, and Lancelot was both touched and frustrated by his son’s concern.

“Come now, Galahad, I’m not so old that I am incapable of protecting myself anymore, injuries or none.” His son looked down, mumbling an apology, but Lancelot squeezed his hands to regain his attention. “Other things may happen. The cart may be damaged. There may be poor weather and we will be unable to continue until the roads are dry again. Do not fret for me, son, and if a very long time does pass, visit your grandmother. She will be able to track me down with her magic.”

“Or perhaps the Royal Wizard?”

Lancelot frowned at the mention of Merlina. Though he wasn’t about to dispute Arthur’s decision to spare her, the rising tensions in Castle Camelot were enough to make him incredibly wary of her. “If you must…”

“But I won’t need to. Right?”

“...You won’t. I promise, Galahad, so long as you’re still here, I will not put myself in any unnecessary danger.”

That seemed to appease his son, as the pale hedgehog dropped their linked hands to throw his arms around his father’s middle, hugging him close. “Thank you, Father,” he whispered, and all Lancelot could do was hold him back, noting how big his young son was becoming. Soon enough, he would be taller than him.

Lancelot’s heart swelled with pride. Taller. Stronger. More capable. Galahad would be the greatest knight Avalon would ever know, and Lancelot loved him so dearly. He hugged his son tightly, forgetting for a moment about the journey ahead of him…

…

...

Though not a sound was made, Lancelot felt the telltale breeze whistle past him, and his foolish heart stuttered as his head snapped up, and there was Arthur, looking sheepish. Galahad drew away, standing up straight as soon as he saw their king before him.

“I uh… hope I wasn’t interrupting your goodbye. I could always come back later?” Arthur offered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, but Galahad shook his head.

“It’s no matter at all! I wished to say farewell to Father, but I trust him when he says that he will be back in no time.” Galahad turned his bright gaze back over to Lancelot, and Lancelot wondered, once again, how he had been blessed with such a wonderful son.

Arthur, too, looked upon Galahad with a gentle fondness that the youth seemed to draw out of most. “Indeed, there are few so capable as your father.”

Lancelot discreetly lowered his visor, feeling his face flush and cursing his weak heart for being so affected by everything today.

Arthur approached him, and Galahad slid to the side, looking on with innocent curiosity. “Lancelot, I want to thank you again for doing this.”

“It’s nothing. I’ve done much more dangerous tasks.”

Arthur laughed. “Trust me, I’m aware.” But then his mouth pressed into a thin line and his voice grew quiet. “But… to get to G.U.N, you must pass by Corbenic… I saw it on a map just now and I wanted to make sure…”

Lancelot knew. He had gone over the travel plans enough times that he could see the map behind his eyelids when he blinked. The thought of passing by his childhood home hardly comforted him, but he didn’t feel frightened. He didn’t _feel_ haunted, though the memory of that terrible night still occasionally plagued his dreams, and the gaunt face of his sister was one image that would never truly leave him until the day he died. There was distance. There was some healing that came with time. Arthur’s concern, though incredibly welcome, was unnecessary.

“I shall be fine. I’m prepared to face whatever memories I might have.”

And Arthur let out a breath, running his fingers through his quills as his face relaxed. “Of course. I should have trusted you from the start, like your son.” He reached out, taking one of Lancelot’s hands in his own, and Lancelot held fast. “Safe travels, my friend.”

Lancelot swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling as though it was filled with tar. “Thank you, Arthur.”

Arthur’s eyes dropped to the ground by his feet, and though his smile remained, there was something melancholy about it that Lancelot didn’t like at all. “Lancelot, tell me, as a person… what do you make of all of this? Of all of my decisions as of late.”

The knight could almost see the weight of uncertainty crushing his friend into the ground, and the words came forth without hesitation. “You have done your best to uphold your code while still protecting your people. You will not always choose correctly, but it’s what you do afterwards that truly matters. You live, and you learn, and now you know that King Ælle is not one to be redeemed, and when the time comes, you will not make the same mistake twice.” Lancelot’s hand gripped at Arthur’s, trying to pull away his doubts. “Never apologize for that mercy of yours. I may not always agree with it, but it is what makes you the king we all follow.”

Arthur’s gaze lifted. “Thank you, Lancelot,” he murmured in reply, and their hands stayed linked for just a moment longer before Arthur’s fingers loosened and he slipped out of Lancelot’s grasp. “I never want to live shackled by my regrets, but… all the same, this is not the outcome I wished for.”

And Lancelot, whose heart had already torn itself in two, somehow broke even more. Arthur didn’t want this, and yet there Lancelot was, preparing to bring him the bride he had selected but never wished for, and not even Galahad’s soothing presence could numb the pain that realization brought.

Yet, broken or not, his heart was still beating, and as long as it kept beating, he would carry out his duties, even if they pained him.

* * *

The skies were clear on his journey forth to G.U.N, and along the way, Lancelot found himself at the inn he had stayed at twelve years prior. The innkeeper had recognized him 一 “Not many knights pass by here!” 一 and her young daughter had grown into a sweet young lady, about Galahad’s age. At the girl’s request, he told her stories of some of his feats of bravery and chivalry, as well as details about life at Camelot, and stories about his king, while the youth listened with rapt, undivided attention. To her mother, he thanked her for her help so many years ago, when he had stopped on his journey back with a baby in his arms, and updated her on Galahad’s progress as a knight.

He felt oddly refreshed as he continued his travels, though nothing had changed, and when he approached Corbenic, he passed the town by, not daring to go inside and revive his old trauma.

He did, however, stop by Elaine’s grave, on the small hill marked by a tree. The ground where she had been buried lay undisturbed, grass and flowers growing over the dirt as uniformly as the rest of the field around it. It was hard to believe that there was a body buried there, Lancelot thought as he sat underneath the shade of the tree.

For a while, he sat there in silence. Then he started talking. He caught Elaine up about Galahad, about his own life, about his revelations and his fears, freeing his thoughts from his mind and releasing them into the open, feeling some of his stresses leave him. He wished she was there, though she could do nothing to change anything. He wished and wished and wished.

When he opened his eyes again, the sun was lowering toward the horizon, and perhaps it was a trick of the light, but he could have sworn that he had seen a slender, pale hand resting in his for just a second before it disappeared.

* * *

Lancelot’s heart sank as soon as he saw Lady Guinevere; she was everything he had imagined, and somehow more. From her fur, white and gleaming in the sun, to her mature figure only barely hidden underneath a lovely gown and shawl, as well as her elegant gait, and her eyes, teal and deep, shimmering with intelligence and wit, lidded in a natural smoulder that even Lancelot, who had never felt drawn to women, couldn’t quite look away from. He bowed his head to her as she approached him, and as he drew himself back up, the lovely bat offered forth her hand. A signet ring bearing her family's crest shone on her finger, and Lancelot delicately took her hand in his, bowing down once more to kiss the ring as he had been taught.

“A gentleman,” Guinevere remarked, and Lancelot wanted to curse because even her  _ voice _ was attractive. Leave it to Arthur to somehow find one of the most beautiful women in the world to wed.

He straightened himself up, squaring his shoulders. “Greetings. I am Sir Lancelot du Lac, the Ultimate Knight of the Round Table, follower of His Majesty King Arthur of Avalon.”

Guinevere’s face went from amused to bored in a matter of seconds, and Lancelot began to get the feeling that she was just as repulsed by formalities as Arthur was. “Quite. It is a pleasure, I’m sure, Sir Lancelot. I am Lady Guinevere of Cameliard from Gawr Uchaf Nerth. I suppose you will be taking me to my new home?”

“As soon as the cart is loaded, ma’am.”

Guinevere grimaced. “Please, _never_ call me ma’am. I can’t stand it at all. Lady Guinevere is fine, if you  _ absolutely _ must use a title… Or perhaps Your Majesty?” All too quickly, she was playful again, tossing him a wink. “Start getting used to it as soon as possible?” Before Lancelot could object, she raised her fingers to her mouth and let out a loud whistle, to which two servants appeared. “You heard the man,” she commanded, moving seamlessly into the role of the one in charge, “the cart won’t go until it’s full, so let’s get cracking!”

She was beautiful. She was informal. She was a leader, effortlessly commanding the subservience of others with both strength of will and wiles. She knew what she wanted from others and didn’t hesitate to get it. By all means, she was a fantastic match for Arthur based on first impressions alone, and Lancelot couldn’t stifle the bitterness that rose within himself.

* * *

Guinevere sat right behind him as they rode back across the fields of G.U.N. She rode sidesaddle, one arm braced against his shoulder, the other keeping herself steady on the end of the saddle. Lancelot did his best to focus on the road ahead, ignoring the storm in his mind that kept reminding him that this was to be his best friend’s wife before the month drew to a close, and for a while he was almost successful, until Guinevere had decided that the silence was not suited to her.

“Ordinarily, this would be the part where the traveller talks about how beautiful my home is,” she said conversationally, and Lancelot grit his teeth, not daring to respond. “And then I would say that it is no more beautiful than anywhere else in the world. I suppose I’m not the sort to get sentimental about it… G.U.N. has always been where I lived, but not quite my home. Tell me, do you have any similar feelings about Avalon?”

“No.”

And how could he? How could he when he was bound to Avalon in so many ways?

Behind him, he heard Guinevere click her tongue. “An ‘only-business’ kind of man, are you?” Her voice carried an edge of displeasure, and Lancelot sighed heavily. As much as he hated the whole situation, he knew that the marriage was inevitable, and sooner or later, the woman behind him would be his queen. At the very least, he should try to get along with her, for Arthur’s sake.

“I’m… not always good at casual conversation.”

“Oh, is that all?” Already she sounded placated, and Lancelot felt a flutter of unease at how easily she seemed to change from one disposition to another; it made her much harder to read. “That’s fine, I’ve met many like you if that’s the case. You’d be surprised how many of the social elite in G.U.N. absolutely _despise_ conversation, but what else could you expect from a military kingdom?”

She kept chatting as the ride went on, pausing now and again to ask him his opinion, pushing him to converse in a way that felt natural, dipping outside his comfort zone just enough that it wasn’t overbearing. Guinevere had many thoughts and opinions, ranging from insightful and intriguing, to petty and trivial, and she effectively erased the noise Lancelot’s roaring thoughts were causing by chattering away, distracting his subconsciousness as he focused on the road ahead.

By the time they had reached the inn they were to stay at for the first night, Lancelot had to admit that Guinevere was a fantastic conversationalist, and did have some intriguing points to make. They secured the cart, locking away all of Guinevere’s belongings, before he escorted her to her room.

“And what of you?” she asked as she rested her hand on the doorknob, raising an eyebrow at him. “Have you eaten yet tonight? Why not join me in town for dinner in a few minutes?”

But Lancelot shook his head. “It’s been a very long journey, and I’m not hungry. I think a rest and some breakfast is all I require.”

A flash of something passed through her eyes 一 Concern? Disappointment? Suspicion? 一 before disappearing. “If you’re certain,” she replied, voice even. “I suppose I can see if the innkeeper still has a meal available for myself.”

Lancelot frowned. He had forgotten that, in one way or another, he was responsible for the Lady’s wellbeing and safety on their journey. “Is it unwise for me to leave you to your own devices?”

Guinevere laughed, a dainty, tinkling noise, hidden behind the back of her hand. “On the contrary, I’m grateful for the freedom, but I promise not to do anything that would get either of us in trouble. Deal?”

The knight wanted to protest, but a yawn crept up on him, forcing him to take a moment as it passed. “I suppose I don’t have a choice.”

“I don’t suppose you do,” Guinevere returned, a playful smirk playing on her lips. “Good night, Sir Lancelot. I’ll see you at sunrise.”

And with that, she disappeared into her room, and Lancelot made his way to his own quarters for the night in silence. As he removed his armor and his clothes, splashed water on his face and lied down in bed, the buzzing in his head came back at full volume, but now he was faced with new images of Guinevere, bright and dazzling by his side as Camelot came into view, and radiant Arthur waiting in front, and Guinevere dashing from the cart as they drew near, running up to Arthur who took her in his arms and swept her off her feet, and together they went inside, leaving him behind.

Lancelot pressed his face into his pillow and screamed, trying to rid his mind of all those pathetic, pointless, terrible thoughts and images of being left behind, of being forgotten, of being replaced. He began to regret his refusal to join Guinevere for dinner; her endless talking was preferable to the hell that was his own mind. As his eyes closed and sleep began to mercifully tug away his thoughts, he wondered how he had let himself become so pitiful.

* * *

A good night’s sleep did wonders every now and again, Lancelot supposed as he woke up the next morning, feeling much more refreshed and rejuvinated. Journeying could take a lot out of a person, especially for so many days in a row. He ate hungrily at breakfast, much to the amusement of Guinevere, who pushed her own half-finished bowl of porridge toward him once he had polished his own off, and Lancelot, deciding that he would try harder at befriending her today, accepted her offer. The lady smiled at him when he took her bowl, and her voice was soft as she teased him for being so ravenous. “You should have gone to eat with me last night. You owe me a big lunch for this, you know.”

“I can live with that,” Lancelot replied between spoonfuls, prompting a laugh from her, complete with a loud snort that made her face grow red. Her eyes narrowed at him, a silent warning to never mention it to anyone, and Lancelot decided that he could grow to like her.

They settled back into a rhythm as they continued their ride to Avalon, with Guinevere doing most of the talking, though Lancelot, with his head much clearer this time around, was able to contribute more to the conversation. They both had much to say about foreign affairs and governance, sometimes agreeing and sometimes vehemently disagreeing, but it helped pass the time as the scenery around them changed and the sun lowered in the sky.

By late afternoon, they had passed Avalon’s borders, and before evening, Corbenic came into view on the horizon. Lancelot’s mind froze, the familiar sight making him realize just how close their journey was coming to an end, and he felt his better mood wither as mixed feelings, thoughts and memories resurfaced at the sight of Elaine’s tree in the distance.

“Hey… Are you okay?”

Lancelot blinked, taking a deep breath to regain his composure. “Of course.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Guinevere snapped, sounding affronted. “If someone shows concern, at least have the decency to acknowledge it!”

Lancelot tensed up. “I apologize.” One thing he had definitely learned about Guinevere in their two days of knowing each other was that she had a very particular way that she wanted to be treated, and learning his way around her was like walking through a minefield sometimes.

There was a tense silence for a while as Corbenic went from a speck on the horizon, to a town sprawling to the side of them. More than once, Lancelot looked over his shoulder at his childhood home; he had always told himself that he had moved on, but with the sight in front of him once again and the light dying from the sky, his world was shrouded in darkness once more and the old familiar feeling of despair rose in his heart.

“Does it have to do with that town?” Guinevere’s voice was gentle once more, concern more evident, and Lancelot took her earlier advice to heart as he replied.

“Yes. That is Corbenic, my childhood home.”

“Oh.” After a beat, she asked again, tentatively, “Was it a good childhood?”

“...It was. I lived with my grandfather and my sister for many happy years.”

“And then?” she urged, and Lancelot struggled to get his words forth.

“And then my grandfather died. Old age. I had already been knighted for a year when it happened, and I returned for the funeral, but I went back to Camelot. My sister stayed in Corbenic for her health.” Lancelot swallowed thickly. “And a few years after that, when I came back to visit her, I found the town in the middle of a raid and my sister dead in her home.”

“Oh my…” Guinevere’s voice was hushed, as though she knew she had pried information from him that might have been better left unsaid. “...Tell me more about your sister.”

And perhaps it was because he had already laid one of the darkest parts of his history bare, but Lancelot jumped at the chance to talk about Elaine. He told Guinevere stories of his youth, of racing his sister through the grassy fields all the way up to their favorite hill, about fishing with his family by the stream and feasting on all that they caught, about learning how to dance through Elaine’s instruction and watching his sister twirl about without a care in the world, about Elaine’s penchant for art and how her tongue would stick out as she drew the landscape outside her window, and the more he talked, the freer he felt, just had he had beside Elaine’s grave only a few days prior. He could see his sister, young and alive and healthy in his mind’s eye as he spoke of her, remembering many little details that he had forgotten when for so long his primary memory of her was a bloody corpse on the ground.

He didn’t stop at Elaine and his grandfather; next he spoke of Galahad, his son, and almost as though he were there with them, he felt his world grow brighter, despite the sun setting and shadows overtaking the land. He talked about how strong and powerful he was, a prodigy knight, his pride and joy, such a pure presence in his life that it renewed his faith in mankind, and all through his speech Guinevere listened, not making a single interjection as Lancelot painted a picture with his words about the family that would forever mean the world to him.

Even once he had finished, she did not speak immediately, letting Lancelot have a moment to bask in the warmth that speaking of his loved ones sparked in him. “I’m glad that you have had such wonderful people in your life. Even if some are no longer with you, I’m sure you’re happier to have known them than not.”

“I am,” Lancelot agreed wholeheartedly, for no matter how terrible his grief could be, he couldn’t be upset at having loved his family so much that such grief was possible. “And you? Do you have someone wonderful as well?”

Guinevere sighed. “I’m afraid not. I’ve never been very close with my parents. They always wanted a certain life for myself, but I had different ideas. I’m sure you can guess that it put a strain between us for many, many years. They aren’t bad people, but I can’t say that I shall miss living around them. Part of the reason I agreed to this whole thing was to get away from them. Find a new start.”

Lancelot’s ears perked up at the new information; he had not thought of Guinevere’s own reasons for agreeing to the marriage, aside from the obvious ‘becoming a queen’. He wanted to probe further, but as he was still stringing the question together in his mind, the lady’s voice piped up again. “About the king… what can you tell me about him? The kind of person he is?” Guinevere’s voice was so quiet, so hesitant about asking that she couldn’t mask the quaver of fear in her tone, and Lancelot once again jumped at the chance to talk about a loved one, and to soothe her mind, to convince her that any apprehensions she had were entirely unfounded.

“King Arthur is the greatest man I’ll ever know. A just ruler, and the best friend I could ever ask for.”

Just like with Elaine, and his grandfather, and Galahad, Lancelot broke out into long anecdotes about Arthur, as a person and as a king, going on tangent after tangent, unable to stop talking. It was so cathartic to finally put all his thoughts into words and bask in the wonderful feelings that came to him whenever he thought about how well he knew Arthur, about how close they were. He told stories of quests they had done together, of their training to become knights in their youth, of Arthur’s steadfast belief in doing what was best, whether that meant following one’s heart or choosing the greater good instead. But he didn’t stop there; he kept talking, mentioning everything he could think of, from mundane details like how he shifted his weight when he was nervous, or the precise color of green of his eyes, all the way down to details that, by all means, weren’t complimentary at all, like his obnoxious habit of nicknaming people that had turned into his habit of giving every knight a moniker, or how he procrastinated, or how he always forgot to excuse himself whenever he burped during a meal, yet Lancelot’s tone betrayed the fondness that he associated with these traits, the dumb, stupid details that made Arthur wholly himself. He talked for so long that his throat began to run dry as the next town appeared on the horizon, and a small stretch of silence followed once more as he revelled in the feeling of his mind being peaceful and quiet for the first time in a long time.

“...He sounds like a truly wonderful man."

Guinevere’s voice was hushed and sad, and Lancelot could tell that she had figured him out. He wasn’t sure what would follow; would she find him repulsive for daring to love his king? Yet she only squeezed his shoulder in a show of comfort, and Lancelot heaved a dejected sigh.

"He is. You… you've made an excellent choice."

They finished their ride into town in silence.

* * *

There was a shift between them; Lancelot figured it was just about inevitable, given that he had laid his soul bare before her, and Guinevere still stood by him, treating him with more patience than before, though still with that air of informal wildness that could never truly be stifled. At the inn where they would stay their final night before their arrival at Camelot, Guinevere grabbed Lancelot by the hand and brought him along the town’s streets, insisting that they have one night of freedom and fun before everything turned into wedding plans and formal addresses. She pulled him from shop to shop, once again talking up a storm and distracting Lancelot from any lingering feelings of dismay or embarrassment.

“There’s a pub over there,” Guinevere said, pointing over to a brightly lit tavern with sounds of conversation, laughter and music spilling into the street. “How about dinner and a drink to celebrate a journey well-travelled?”

“I’ll pass on the drinking,” Lancelot replied as he pushed open the door, holding it open for Guinevere to pass through first. “I’ll be driving tomorrow and it won’t do to be hungover.”

The bat giggled, taking a seat at the bar and patting the stool next to her. “Suit yourself, darling.”

Dinner wasn’t anything special 一 Lancelot had had much tastier stew, but he wasn’t about to complain 一 but it became all too clear very quickly that Guinevere was a woman who could hold her liquor like no one’s business. It started with her ordering a glass of whiskey to go with her meal, and followed by various men approaching and offering to buy her another. Guinevere accepted their offers, urging them to get one of their own as well, and proceeded to drink every last one of them under the table without batting an eye.

It was so ridiculously  _ unladylike _ and so ridiculously  _ perfect _ for Arthur’s future spouse.

“Should you really be drinking so much?” Lancelot griped as yet another man slumped over the bar, hiccuping as he closed his eyes, while Guinevere sipped her drink without a qualm.

“I’ve been drinking water in between every glass. I’ll be fine, I know my limits.”

“At this rate, I’m surprised that you  _ have _ a limit.”

Guinevere snorted again, covering her mouth as she reddened in embarrassment, then took away her hand with a grimace. “Fine, fine, you win. I’ll slow down.”

Lancelot was satisfied… until he learned that ‘slow down’ evidently meant ‘switch to beer’, as yet another man swaggered up to Guinevere with the offer to purchase a drink. Yet as soon as she raised the cup to her lips, the man saw an opportunity to put his hand on her thigh.

Lancelot’s hand immediately shot for his blade, but before he could draw it, the man was sent flying through the air until he slammed unconscious into a wall. Guinevere was glaring at him in disgust, leg still raised from her kick, and she set her drink down, pushing it far away. “Come on,” she growled, sliding off her stool. “Let’s dance.”

Lancelot hopped off his own seat, unsure if he had heard correctly. “Dance?”

“Yes. Dance. You said your sister taught you how?” Guinevere looked at him, her face still twisted in a scowl, eyes angry and bitter. “Just… dance with me. Take my mind off of things and make sure no one else tries to cut in.”

Already people were starting to stare, some inching from the man collapsed on the floor toward her, eyes filled with the promise of confrontation, and Lancelot didn’t need to be told twice.

* * *

Guinevere was a fantastic dancer.

Even under the influence of a great many drinks, she swayed with the music, keeping time with a practiced professionalism, and she followed Lancelot’s lead with no issues at all, gliding around him as though she were dancing on air. Whenever someone approached them, one or both of the duo would glare them away before spinning to another corner of the room. Once or twice she stumbled, cursing under her breath, using words that Lancelot wouldn't dare say, but after two songs, Guinevere had appeared to recover from the incident at the bar and began to enjoy herself.

“You dance marvellously,” she praised as Lancelot effortlessly led her into a spin turn, and he hummed in reply, making sure their footing was even before returning to conversing.

“I had a great teacher in Elaine, and I’ve kept it up in her memory.”

“She sounds like one of a kind. I think I would have liked her very much.”

As Lancelot lowered Guinevere into a dip, he decided that he most definitely liked her.

* * *

Guinevere gripped Lancelot’s hand on their trip back to the inn, stumbling much more now that the drinks were kicking in. She giggled, fingering the necklace she had ‘liberated’ from yet another ‘gentleman caller’ who had tried to cut in to their dance with rough hands and an inability to listen to refusal. The confrontation had ended the same way the one at the bar had, with the man slumped on the floor and both Lancelot and Guinevere standing triumphantly over him before being asked by the owner of the pub to leave. Before they had gone, Guinevere had stooped over, stealing the man’s necklace and rings as a final “screw you”, as she called it.

She was absolutely chaotic, stubborn and ridiculous, and even though he still hated the circumstances, there was no one else Lancelot would have preferred as Arthur’s spouse than she.

“It seems as though you might have overdone it,” he remarked as she stumbled yet again, getting the hem of her dress stained with dirty water as she splashed in a puddle.

“Mmm, guess I’m losing some of that old tolerance,” she agreed, chuckling under her breath. “But you know? This is the time that you can ask me those personal things you want to ask. I’ll answer them… maybe…”

“Is that an offer?”

“You gotta question everything? Just… take what you want sometimes!”

And Lancelot had to be content with that.

“Do you feel any better about marrying Arthur?”

Her response was immediate. “No.  _ Chaos no. _ And not just because of you, either.” She hiccuped, gripping his hand tighter as she swayed from side to side before continuing their way forth. “I already knew he was a great guy. I’ve been writing to him for… weeks? Weeks.” She nodded, answering her own question as Lancelot looked on with uncertain curiosity. “But I… that’s not what I’m worried about. I’m really worried about the thing that people expect married people to do. You know? Like…” She raised her free hand, prepared to make an obscene gesture, before Lancelot batted it down.

“I understand! I understand, you need explain no further!”

“No, really!” she insisted, and she sounded so distraught that Lancelot failed to raise any more objections. “I’ve never wanted… to lie with someone like that. It’s why I never wanted to get married, because then I’ll just belong to some man, no better than property and unable to say 'no'.” Her face scrunched up, and for a moment it looked like she was about to spit in the street, but it quickly gave way to a worn out, forlorn expression. “It’s why I denied every suitor, and why I drove my parents crazy by being a spinster at my age. I hoped that… maybe if I made a friend in Arthur, he wouldn’t desire me, but... what if he does? We’ve only written to each other, and he hasn’t a clue what I look like… and I only know him through his words and your own.”

That was the moment Lancelot knew that he cared about Lady Guinevere, completely and absolutely. It was similar to the devotion he recognized as Arthur’s, though less absolute. Perhaps this was the loyalty he was supposed to feel for his sovereign, for his queen. For her, he was willing to fight, to keep her honor and her happiness intact, to follow her instruction to the letter because few deserved that kind of obedience more than she, and she didn’t even need to ask for it. She had earned it, simply by being herself.

Guinevere, like Arthur, had commanded his loyalty in less than a week of knowing her, yet the intensity in which he felt his devotion to the two differed greatly. For Guinevere’s sake, he was willing to kill, but for Arthur’s sake, he was willing to die.

The two stopped walking altogether, Guinevere looking so lost and scared, and Lancelot regretted bringing it up at all. “And now… now I don’t want to be the thing that drives you and him apart, either. Not when I’ve found a friend in you as well.” Her eyes bore into his, regret swimming in the teal depths. “Tell me, Lancelot, how long have you loved him?”

That question again. That question that had been plaguing him since Arthur had held him, reassuring him that he was alive and okay and that none of what had transpired was his fault. The question that Lancelot had been struggling to answer for weeks.

Yet an answer came to him in a moment, and his heart broke just a little more as he replied.

“It doesn’t matter. He was never mine to have.”

“Lancelot…”

This was all wrong. None of them wanted this, not himself, not Arthur, and not Guinevere. They were all stepping into an uncertainty, where they could only hope it ended well. Guinevere’s hand squeezed his own once more in a silent, helpless apology, and Lancelot squeezed back in turn, his own apology for bringing Guinevere’s own fears out into the open. He led her back to the inn, mind racing once more.

Perhaps he had loved Arthur since childhood. Perhaps he had only recently started loving him. It didn’t matter in the slightest, for it was a doomed love from the start. Arthur’s friendship was enough, Arthur’s friendship meant so much to Lancelot, but the yearning didn’t fade.

_ I truly am the greatest fool of them all. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah so Rouge will be asexual in every piece of Sonic-related content I make and Ken Penders can catch these hands.
> 
> Also I love me some platonic Shadouge. Just those two being platonic soulmates gives me life.
> 
> Guinevere is described as being immensely beautiful and desirable so who else could it be but Rouge the Bat? I'd love to add Omega in here somehow, but as far as the narrative goes, I have no idea how to put him in the story, unless he was the soul of Ddraig Goch (destructive, Lancelot's most mighty weapon). I'll keep thinking about it, but Omega might have to wait for my next planned piece.
> 
> Also I'm just gonna take another moment to thank you all for your support. I've been getting so many comments as of late and it makes me so, so happy to see people reading this and liking it too. And I never thought I'd say this, but NOW THERE'S ART TOO! Like... I never imagined this would be so well received that art would come out of it, and just...
> 
> Thank you all, so, so very much.
> 
> Next chapter: Guinevere arrives at Camelot Castle and finally meets her future spouse.


	17. Chapter 17

Guinevere woke up as dawn's gentle rays of light filtered through her window, softly hitting her eyelids and painfully exacerbating her pounding headache. She groaned in displeasure, hiding her face underneath a pillow, but the ache persisted and sleep would not return to her. She threw the pillow to the side, eyes blinking open and staring at the ceiling.

She hadn't had a hangover this bad in years; it seemed as though she wasn't as resilient as she used to be. She wouldn't blame it on her age; she was still plenty capable and agile now as she was ten years ago, and if she kept thinking about youth, she would end up just like her mother, obsessed with time. Life was meant to be lived, not planned down to the second, and some spontaneity could do wonders for a person.

Still, as her head pounded while she got herself a drink before dressing for the final leg of her journey, she couldn't help but mourn the decline of her incredible tolerance. She would need a lot of water to get through this day alive.

Waking up at sunrise had its perks; she needed time to put together her outfit, something easy to travel in yet presentable enough to appear before her future subjects. She needed to make the right kind of first impression. Today, she was still a Lady and was held to those standards, even if she was the queen-to-be, but that didn't mean she couldn't try to impress everyone.

No, not try. _Succeed._ Guinevere was a person who did what she set out to do.

She settled on a pale pink gown and wrapped a thin black shawl over her shoulders, then started picking through her jewelry, letting out a dreamy sigh as she looked at her collection on hand. Was there nothing more glorious than a gemstone? Such a simple sort of beauty, one that captured the peak of what nature had to offer, with every color under the sun accounted for. Guinevere slid on a couple of rings and was reaching for the necklace when she remembered how she had obtained these ones in particular.

Not even the throbbing pain in her head could compare to the one that pierced her heart. _Lancelot…_

Guinevere sighed, setting the necklace back down. From the jug on the nightstand, she poured herself some more water, mulling over their predicament. At this point, the wedding was inevitable; both her and Arthur needed it to happen regardless of any personal feelings, and in any case it didn’t seem as though Lancelot was looking for any opportunities to claim Arthur’s affections. To try to avoid the marriage would help no one in the end, though the possibilities that came with it still unnerved her. What if Arthur did find himself desiring her? How long would she be able to avoid his bed?

...What if, with time, she found herself in love with Arthur as well, breaking Lancelot’s heart and trust, forever creating a rift between them?

Guinevere shook her head to clear it, instantly regretting it as dizziness joined the aching in some sort of unholy tango. Thinking like this was utterly pointless. If this was to be her life from now on, she needed to take it as it came, thorns and all. Fear would not protect her; she had no one to trust and no one to blame but herself. Her fingers fiddled idly with the rings around her fingers, and a bittersweet smile crept onto her face.

Well… maybe she did have some new people to trust from now on. 

Perhaps.

* * *

The sun beat down from above, bathing the world around them in warmth. Ordinarily, Guinevere would love such a beautiful spring morning, but the bright rays of the sun were aggravating the pounding in her head, forcing her to close her eyes in the hopes it would lessen.

“Hmph. Seems as though you do have a limit after all.”

“Oh hush,” she snapped, lightly tapping at Lancelot’s shoulder. “It’s been longer than I thought.”

When had been the last time she had been out drinking? Years, she supposed, as she fought through the fog in her head. Years since her parents had gotten sick of her wild ways and status as an unmarried noblewoman. Years since they had started exercising their control over her to the best of their abilities, limiting her adventures and travels for good, old-fashioned social gatherings where everyone stood in a circle and talked about war strategies. Guinevere grimaced; G.U.N. was already boring as a military kingdom, but to be part of the stuffy elites who had no idea how to talk to each other? That was its own special hell.

“Hey Lance?” She felt the hedgehog sitting in front of her jolt in his seat, and her eyes fluttered open in surprise. “Is something wrong?”

“No, it’s…”

The thought seemed to die on his tongue, and his shoulders remained hitched upwards. It looked as though she would have to play the guessing game with him.

“Would you prefer I called you Lancelot?”

The knight was quiet for a long time, giving very serious consideration to her question, but Guinevere was fine with waiting, reaching for the waterskin and taking one more big gulp, feeling her pains soothe themselves, even just a little.

“...No. You may call me Lance.”

Guinevere smirked. “Okay, Lance it is.” There was a story behind that silence, but that would have to wait for another day, as the queen-to-be did not feel sharp enough to coax it out of him right then. “Do you mind telling me what Arthur looks like? I’ve heard the stories, and I know he is a hedgehog who wears armor that is gold like the sun, but I want to be sure I will recognize him once we arrive.”

Thanks to Lancelot, she also knew that he had green eyes, the color of the newest leaves on the trees in spring, but she omitted that part, lest it cause her companion more unease or sorrow.

“King Arthur does not always wear his armor, for the weight of it slows him down or tires him more quickly, but he does keep his gauntlets, his boots and his crown. All are gold as you have heard. He wears his red cape as well.”

All of Lancelot’s descriptions sounded flat and to the point, as though he were avoiding a repeat of the previous afternoon. Guinevere squeezed his shoulder, a silent plea to continue, and Lancelot seemed to relent. “He’s about my height, and his quills are blue, like the sky when one looks at it between the trees…”

Guinevere’s breath caught in her throat. She was certain that Lancelot was about to open up again, but her friend sighed harshly and shook his head. “I’m sure you’ll be able to figure it out. I’ll point him out to you if I must.”

And Guinevere knew better than to push it any further. They were at a point where they needed to accept what was about to happen, instead of dreaming of what could be.

But that wouldn’t stop her from fighting for Lancelot’s happiness in any way she could.

* * *

By some miracle, Guinevere’s headache had lessened into something manageable by the time Lancelot reigned their horse into the courtyard of Castle Camelot, and it only took her draining the waterskin dry to do the trick. Lancelot descended, helping her off the horse as some servants approached, looking at the cart piled high with Guinevere’s belongings in trepidation, though they started their task without complaint. Guinevere stared up at the large stone castle, appraising it silently. This would be her home base from now on.

She heard it before she felt it; a breeze, quieter and yet stronger than most, tickled at her ears, and suddenly there was someone new in front of her. A hedgehog, with a golden crown gleaming on his head, blue quills tinged with some distinguished grays, and the greenest eyes she had ever beheld. Lancelot hadn’t exaggerated, it seemed, when he had struggled for so long to describe just what they looked like.

Those eyes were looking at her in nervous excitement, and one hand reached forward to her, clad in a golden gauntlet.

“Lady Guinevere of Cameliard… It’s an honor.”

She reached forward and took the offered hand, bemused by the forced formality. “Likewise, King Arthur Pendragon.”

They shook hands, a stiff gesture that would never manage to break the ice between them, even with the weeks of correspondence, and so Guinevere took matters into her own hands, dropping Arthur’s hand with a laugh and pulling him into a hug. She felt him jolt and freeze, but relax in a heartbeat as he laughed and hugged her back.

There. _That_ was more like it.

They broke apart, both grinning ear to ear. “It’s so good to finally meet you in person,” Arthur stated, looking her up and down. “It only occurred to me after Lancelot left that I had no idea what you looked like!”

Guinevere giggled. “I’m afraid I had to ask for a description of yourself as well on the way here.”

Arthur glanced over Guinevere’s shoulder at Lancelot. “Good things, I hope.”

The bat stepped out of the way, patting Arthur’s shoulder as she moved. “Don’t worry, only good things.”

_Oh honey, if you only knew._

Much to Guinevere’s relief, Arthur approached Lancelot next, drawing his knight into a hug as well, giddiness apparently not yet subsiding, and Lancelot did not hesitate to return the embrace, relaxing into his friend’s hold. The hug did not last long for the two of them either, but Arthur’s hands remained on Lancelot’s shoulders as he broke away.

“I trust you had safe travels?”

“I came back on time, did I not?” Lancelot retorted, and Guinevere watched in fascination as Arthur seemed to thrive off of the lack of formality as she did.

“So you did, so you did. In fact, _ahead_ of time. Galahad was not expecting you until supper.” Arthur looked over his shoulder into the distance. “He’s sparring with Sir Kay at the moment. If you were to interrupt, I’m sure he’d be delighted to see you.”

“As much as I’d rather not risk Sir Kay’s wrath, I think I will.” Lancelot stepped away, and Arthur’s hands fell back to his sides. “...It’s good to see you again.”

Arthur laughed again, though it held no malice. “It’s not been _that_ long, Lancelot, but I’m glad to see you as well.”

Lancelot looked away, face hidden and unfathomable underneath his visor. “Then if I may, I’ll be taking my leave. I’ll be seeing both of you later, I’m sure.”

And with a quick farewell from both Guinevere and Arthur, the Ultimate Knight sped away, leaving the two of them alone.

“He’s an excellent knight, that Lancelot,” Guinevere remarked as she and Arthur made their way up the steps to the castle’s large, wooden doors.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Arthur agreed as he pushed them open, and a cool gust of air rushed past the two of them. “He’s been my best friend for so many years, and my greatest knight for almost as long. I’ve told you a story or two in my letters, haven’t I? About battling the dragon when we went to find Caliburn? Or the time when we tracked down the beast that was terrorizing the villages around the Deep Woods? Or perhaps when Lancelot was attacked by a swarm of butterflies but he still managed to beat two armed robbers, despite the illusions he faced?”

Arthur seemed to have endless stories about Lancelot’s feats as a knight, and he told them with such a large smile on his face and such fondness and pride in his tone and... 

_Oh darling, you haven’t even realized it yet, have you?_

“I’m sure, given time, I’ll see one of Lance’s feats on my own,” she remarked, prompting an odd look from Arthur. “...Is something the matter?”

“No… No it’s just… He lets you call him ‘Lance’?” At Guinevere’s nod, Arthur frowned and looked ahead. “It took me years for him to let me call him that. You must be one of a kind.”

“Of course I am,” she returned, careful to keep her tone light and playful. “I’m the future Queen Guinevere, and I’ll be making sure people know it.”

That brought a smile back to Arthur’s face. “You know what? I think the people here are going to like you a lot.”

He had a beautiful smile, and despite the signs of aging, a boyish charm to him that seemed eternal. Easy on the eyes, most definitely… but he was not Guinevere’s type, and for that, she felt relief.

The castle was large, and the tour long, and all throughout, Guinevere found that bantering with Arthur was just as easy as in their letters. They joked with each other, snarked at each other, and they flirted with each other, though there was no real substance behind it, and Guinevere was feeling better and better about the arrangement the longer she was there. Avalon, it seemed, would be a good place for her, and Arthur a splendid companion.

Back in G.U.N, bored to tears with her stuffy, underwhelming peers, Guinevere would act out, switching her demeanor on a dime, just to keep people on their toes and guessing. Some would seem apprehensive about approaching her after a single conversation, which suited her just fine; she couldn’t stand the weak-willed pretending to be strong military types, and yet that seemed to be just about every other person in her birth kingdom.

However, around Arthur, and around Lancelot, too, once he had learned to treat her as an equal instead of a royal burden, she felt the need to do so much less strongly. It wouldn’t disappear overnight, she supposed, but she felt so relaxed in this new environment with these new people.

Maybe she would never return to G.U.N. again, and that suited her just fine.

* * *

“And this is the treasury,” Arthur said, gesturing to a locked door. Guinevere perked up at the mention of it, mind already racing with possibilities, but Arthur shook his finger at her. “Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s all coin in there.”

Guinevere pouted, crossing her arms. “That’s a shame… but for the best, I suppose. If there were any gems, I might not be able to stop myself.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Arthur returned, softly nudging her with his elbow as they turned the corner. They had reached a more crowded part of the castle, and Guinevere had noticed a few heads turning as she passed by. It was nothing new to her, and she still rather enjoyed the attention her beauty got her, though she had to remind herself that she was also a foreign presence in this particular instance.

The sound of metal on metal clashing rang in her ear as they continued on, and it seemed as though Arthur heard it as well. “Come on,” he urged her, taking her hand in his own and pulling her along. “Let’s go see what’s happening.”

Guinevere struggled to keep up with Arthur 一 _Knight of the Wind, indeed!_ 一 as the metallic clanging grew louder, coupled with grunts of effort. The duo turned a corner, peering into one of the rooms, and there were two knights in full armor sparring together.

Well, not precisely.

One of them, an armadillo, was blocking every other attack with his shield and parrying all others with his blade. The other, an echidna, was striking forth mercilessly with two blades, using an incredible display of brute strength that captured her interest.

“Working hard, men?” Arthur called into the room, prompting both to pause in their battle and stand rapt at attention.

“Your Majesty,” both said in unison, bowing to their king. Their sights then turned to Guinevere, and while the armadillo looked at her in curiosity, the echidna seemed to falter in his composure for a moment.

“And, erm… Your Majesty?” he asked, prompting a laugh from Guinevere.

“Not quite yet,” she replied, resting her free hand on her hip. “Lady Guinevere of Cameliard, queen-to-be.”

Arthur gestured to the knights. “May I present to you, Sir Gaheris the Peaceful…”

The armadillo lifted his visor, dark eyes wide with a warmth and friendliness that Guinevere didn't usually associate with knighthood. He bowed his head to her. “My Lady.”

“...and his brother, Sir Gawain, the Guardian Knight.”

The echidna followed suit, lifting his visor and bowing his head in greeting. Something about his name rang familiar.

“Gawain… the one who holds Galatine?”

The knight looked at her in surprise, yet before he could say a word, Guinevere had made her way into the room, plucking one of the blades from his hand to get a closer look. “Interesting… Did you know that these blades were said to have originated from my birthplace?”

“What do you think you’re _doing?_ ” Just like that, the blade was snatched back from her hand, and Guinevere found herself looking into the face of an enraged echidna. “My weapon is not a toy for you to take as you please!”

“Gawain!” Gaheris cried out, grabbing his brother’s arm. “Stop this at once, remember who you’re talking to!”

Gawain’s mouth closed tightly, giving him the appearance of one who had just swallowed a lemon as he took a step back and struggled to restrain his temper. 

It was quite a sight. 

“I apologize,” he said, though it wasn’t far from a growl. “That was rude of me.”

“Don’t apologize,” Guinevere returned, and all semblance of anger disappeared from Gawain in an instant, replacing itself rather amusingly with confusion. “I took something of yours and you told me as much.”

“But… but I was disrespectful, and if you are to be the queen, then I should--”

“How about you let me decide for myself what is respecting me and what is not?”

Sir Gawain looked absolutely dumbfounded, purple eyes staring as he tried to make sense of what was happening, and Guinevere couldn’t help but laugh. As his face shifted back into a displeased scowl, the bat could tell that this was a man who had difficulty controlling his temper, and by the way he had reacted to her status, he was bound by tradition to boot.

An interesting combination. He would be a fun one to mess around with.

* * *

After dismissing themselves from their intrusion on Sirs Gaheris and Gawain’s sparring match, Arthur figured that it would be best if Guinevere met all the knights at once when he called a meeting the next day. Guinevere agreed, stifling a yawn and feeling the phantom pains of the morning’s hangover start to creep up on her again. Arthur guided her up some stairs and down a hall, his hand on her lower back to push her along.

“Already so comfortable around each other? It seems as though you’ve made a good choice for your bride, my liege.”

The duo turned their heads and were greeted by the sight of a large tawny owl and a slender human woman with pointed ears. Arthur’s hand immediately dropped to his side.

“Good afternoon, Lady Longclaw, Lady Merlina. May we introduce you to Lady Guinevere of Cameliard?”

The royal we? So these were old-fashioned, high-status women?

It seemed so, as both dropped into a low bow before her. “Greetings, my Lady,” the owl said, straightening up again. “I am Lady Longclaw, senior advisor to His Majesty the King, and this is Lady Merlina, the Royal Wizard. I trust that your trip went well.”

“It did, thank you,” Guinevere replied, falling into a formal register despite wanting nothing to do with it. She was getting exhausted, with three days of travelling and one hangover starting to wear down on her, and to get into arguments over formalities was not how she wanted to spend her evening.

“It seems as though you two get along well,” Merlina commented, though there was an uneasy tone to her voice that set Guinevere on edge, but before she could wheedle out an explanation, a new voice joined the fray.

“To say the least! You should have heard these two talking up a storm! You would think they had been married already for years.”

Guinevere looked all around, but there was no one else there. She wondered for a moment if she was imagining things, or if she was perhaps delirious from the journey and the tour, but Arthur unsheathed his sword, holding it up to his face.

“Oh Caliburn, are you jealous?” he cooed. “Would you wish to join us?”

“Hardly!” the sword snapped back, and Guinevere blinked in astonishment as she realized that all those little parts in Arthur’s letters about his sword speaking to him hadn’t been embellished at all.

Arthur leaned in close next to her, and in a loud fake-whisper, said, “The sword doth protest too much, methinks,” and Guinevere, unable to help herself, laughed so hard that she snorted.

Ugh. She _hated_ her stupid snort. Even if it did make Arthur howl in laughter in kind.

The two of them were unable to stifle their laughing fits, much to the amusement of Longclaw, but the worried look in Merlina’s eyes only grew. As the smile started to fade from Arthur’s face as well, Guinevere could only feel a latent sense of dread creeping over them all, but had no idea why.

* * *

“Will you stay up for supper?” Arthur asked as they started to wrap up their tour. The sky outside was dark and the halls were lit with torches which had come to life as soon as the sun had set; a feat possible by the royal wizard they had met earlier, it seemed. “Or would you rather rest?”

Guinevere rubbed at her eyes, stifling another yawn. “I can live without one meal,” she decided aloud, and Arthur guided her down a new corridor, grander than the others, yet Guinevere couldn’t bring herself to fully appreciate it. The day had been draining, for many reasons, and falling asleep for a good, long while sounded like heaven.

Yet as they drew nearer and nearer to their destination, Guinevere’s worries reawakened. She doubted Arthur would try anything that evening, but what about the future? What about their wedding day? As he steered her toward a large door with a few of her bags from G.U.N. sitting in wait outside, she knew she would have to bring it up sooner rather than later.

“And here’s your room. I assume most of your things have been put inside, but if you find anything missing, please let me know. My own room is down the hall that way--”

“We’re not sharing a room?” Guinevere interrupted, surprise getting the better of her, and Arthur blinked, faltering.

“I thought… I thought you would want one of your own? When I read your letters it seemed as though you wanted your own space, so I…” He frowned, once again looking her up and down as he had when they first saw each other, but there was a sort of hesitancy about the action that gave Guinevere hope. “I suppose, if you wanted to, I could--”

“No.” She shook her head, feeling herself relax. “You were entirely right, this is exactly what I was hoping for.”

Arthur’s smile returned, and he seemed relieved as well, though Guinevere couldn’t quite pinpoint why. It was the same as the feeling she had gotten when Merlina had looked at the two of them in apprehension, and intuitively, Guinevere wondered if it was connected. She had questions she wanted to ask about that, and she knew that she needed to tell Arthur as soon as possible that she would refuse his bed if it were ever offered to her, but another yawn crept up on her, and she knew she was at her limit.

_Another day_ , she figured, as she hugged her fiancé and bid him goodnight.

She withdrew to her room and flopped down on the bed, feeling a wide smile blossom on her lips. A room of her own. A space just for her. She could leap out of the window and fly far if she wanted to, and no one could stop her.

  
For the first time in years, Guinevere felt _free!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember in SatBK when Sonic had that mildly flirty exchange with Caliburn? Because I sure do.
> 
> This was not intended to be as long as it ended up being, and there was a small point of writer's block, but Guinevere is here and she's really hit the jackpot as far as she's concerned. Also, can I have a moment to just appreciate the relationship between Guinevere and Arthur? Because it's glorious to me and they're going to have such a great platonic marriage.
> 
> Also, folks? I have to thank you again for your support. Every time I see a new kudos or comment, it really makes my day, and you've all been so great. Thank you all so, so much.
> 
> Next chapter: You are cordially invited to the royal wedding between King Arthur Pendragon of Avalon and Lady Guinevere of Cameliard from G.U.N.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I've nicknamed this chapter Dance Dance Revolution for obvious reasons.
> 
> Fun fact 2: This chapter has 8500+ words before editing.

Lancelot’s fingers fumbled with the buttons on his suit jacket, and he let out a low growl. Without the weight of his armor, he felt exposed, but formalwear was required by all attendees, and as a knight of the Round Table, he was expected to be there. It wasn't as though he was intending to skip it in the first place; few people could get him to set aside his armor and his blade, but unfortunately for him, both Arthur and Guinevere made that list, and so for them he would push aside his misgivings and try to look presentable.

After all, today was their big day.

Lancelot finally finished buttoning up his jacket, smoothing down any wrinkles with his palms and staring at himself in the looking glass one more time. Without his helmet, his quills spiked up freely, untethered and untamed. Without his visor, his red eyes were clearly visible, and the scar running up from his chin to his cheek was impossible to ignore, and by Chaos, he was starting to go gray as well. Lancelot glared at his reflection, picking out each and every flaw he could find, and felt his foul mood worsen. No matter how many steps he had taken to mentally prepare himself for today, it was impossible for him to walk into the celebration with any semblance of peace or joy.

Guinevere, bless her heart, had tried her hardest to help him out, in between guiding the preparations and dress fittings and choosing floral arrangements and countless other things that made Lancelot’s head spin just thinking about it. She had spoken with him, coaxing his thoughts and feelings out and helping him work through them, and though it didn’t fix anything, it helped quiet the cacophony in his head that drummed up whenever he remembered that two of his closest friends were about to pledge their lives together until death do they part.

“It’s really not that big of a deal, sweetheart,” Guinevere had assured him. “Think of it as us vowing to be good friends for the rest of our lives.”

Some days, thinking like that helped a great deal. Other days, it didn’t, for hadn’t Lancelot made that vow so many years ago? Hadn’t he sworn to stay by Arthur’s side, no matter the circumstances? Hadn’t he pledged his life, his loyalty, his future and everything he was to the one he trusted the most with himself?

Jealousy was such an ugly, _ugly_ emotion, and Lancelot saw it staining his face worse than any scar he could have gotten. Both Arthur and Guinevere deserved a better friend than he; both of them were tackling the issues before them with brave faces and the willingness to try something radical to solve their problems, and they both deserved the happy conclusion this union would bring them. Arthur’s people would celebrate him once more, Guinevere would be free from her parents' strict rule over her life, and the burden of governing a kingdom would be halved. Guinevere, too, had come to him over the moon one day, gleefully telling him that Arthur had no qualms with her wish to keep their marriage from becoming physical, and Lancelot had felt relief both for her and for himself. He had never given it much thought before, but the concept of Arthur forming a physical, intimate bond with someone... he feared it would have been enough to make him go mad, to the point that he had to shake his head with great force and angrily tell himself to stop being dramatic.

And Guinevere… he couldn’t hate her for this even if he wanted to. In no time at all, she had found her own way into his heart, and he loved her like she was a new member of his family, as he loved and cared for Galahad. Despite his wish that he could build walls, turn his soul into cold steel like the armor that enveloped him, his soft heart remained true and let people in, igniting his world with more and more light; from Galahad, his beacon in the darkness, to Arthur, the sun in his sky, and then to Guinevere, the new light promising more to come.

He loved them. By Chaos, he loved them all so much, and for their sake, he would try to be happy on this day.

As though sensing his thoughts, a knock sounded on the door, as well as a muffled “Father?” Lancelot pushed himself away from the looking glass, opening the door, and there was his son, dressed in a dark gray suit, his bright eyes glowing once he saw him. “Father, you look fantastic! Except…” Lancelot stood stock still as Galahad readjusted his lapels, watching his son frown in concentration before brightening up again as he stepped back, taking in the full view. “Perfect! Very handsome!”

“As are you,” Lancelot returned, and Galahad beamed, grabbing his father’s hand and pulling him along.

“The carriages will be leaving soon! You may be one of the fastest people in the land, but we don’t want you ruining your suit by running there!”

Lancelot grunted in reply, letting Galahad tug him out the room and through the halls of Camelot. The wedding would be held in the town nearby, a public celebration open to the masses, though the party would be a private affair held in the castle. From what Lancelot had heard, many towns and villages across Avalon had prepared celebratory feasts and festivals in honor of this day, and surely that would boost the general mood of the kingdom. Plus, when word got around that Avalon and G.U.N. were united, surely that would put a halt in whatever plans King Ælle was cooking up.

By all means, this was the best move for everyone. Lancelot knew this.

He could only hope he was prepared for today.

* * *

The world around him melted into nothing when he saw Arthur; his king stood majestic by the altar, clad in a pristine white suit with gold accents, his quills brushed, sleek and shining in the sun, crown balanced upon his head, sitting within the lush strands of blue as though it belonged there. _Glorious. Regal. Ethereal._ Lancelot felt his palms begin to sweat and his knees grow weak as he took his seat close to the front, his son sliding onto the bench beside him. His eyes remained fixed in front of him, at his king, looking relaxed in all his splendor, and as the sun’s rays gleamed off of his crown, his suit, his quills, it was as though it was Arthur illuminating the room around them.

The feelings that had been blossoming for months were now in full bloom, and Lancelot shut his eyes, both blocking out the glorious image while simultaneously committing it to memory. Arthur had always been a handsome man, but it appeared that Lancelot hadn’t even seen him at his best before today. Cursing his pounding heart, he reopened his eyes, trying to focus on the seats around him getting filled by his fellow knights, all devoid of armor, but try as he might, his gaze always returned to Arthur. His eyes zeroed in on his king’s hand, watching him tap his forefingers against his leg, the only indication that Arthur was much more nervous than he appeared, and Lancelot wondered if anyone else could see it, Arthur’s well-hidden fears behind his carefully-crafted outward confidence. As though sensing his concern, Arthur’s head turned, and as their eyes met, the king’s face relaxed into a reassuring grin, and by Chaos, Lancelot was not prepared to behold it.

So this was falling in love. 

With time, he hoped that these overwhelming sentiments would fade into something more manageable, but right at that moment, those feelings were difficult to restrain and impossible to ignore. Still, he was a knight. Facing obstacles was just another part of his job.

He had faced dragons, dark magic, soldiers, politics, aggressive citizens… he could handle a wedding.

The seats filled up with invited guests, then the aisles flooded with townsfolk, pushing and shoving to get a glimpse of their sovereign. Lancelot heard the gasps and hushed, excited whispers as the crowd, too, was enchanted by their king's magnificence. Once the aisles were full to bursting and Arthur stepped up before the altar, a hush fell over the room. The minister stepped forward, taking his place before everyone, and the music suddenly swelled, making Lancelot's heart swoop in both dread and excitement.

The door opened, and there was Guinevere, and if Arthur was the sun, then she was the stars, dazzling and breathtaking and painting the heavens with her splendor. As she strode down the aisle, Lancelot swore that not a soul was breathing. She marched unattended, with no one to give her away, free like a bird in the open sky with only the next destination in sight. As she got closer, Lancelot could see the details, the white material of her dress accented with gold to match her fiancé's, the long skirt floating around her legs, the bridal bouquet clasped between both hands, the veil sitting neatly on her head, though her face remained uncovered, showing the world that she was not afraid and would not hide. Her eyes flickered over to him as she passed, and she gave him a reassuring wink, and as she took her place next to Arthur at the altar, it occurred to Lancelot that he hadn't seen her at her best either.

They looked perfect together, up there, like a couple from a fairy tale, ready to embrace their happily ever after, and despite everything, Lancelot was happy for them. No one deserved it more than those two.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…"

Lancelot watched the proceedings in silence, silently admiring his two greatest friends perform the proceedings with poise and restraint, adhering to tradition despite their shared distaste for it. He listened to their vows, simple and short and to the point, promising to remain by each other's side through thick and thin, to halve each other's burdens and to support each other as man and wife. He watched the exchanging of rings, the light glimmering off of the duo and bathing them in a golden glow, and as Arthur lowered the queen's crown onto Guinevere's head, atop her veil, the two smiled at each other, with a look full of trust and understanding. It seemed as though the two were ready to run into the future together.

"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife, and King and Queen." The announcement was met with cheers from the crowd all around, and flower petals were tossed carelessly into the air, raining down on everyone. Out of the corner of his eye, Lancelot saw Galahad discreetly use his powers to make them float in a pattern, spelling out the names of the newlyweds in the air. "You may kiss the bride."

Both Arthur and Guinevere started at that, as though they had forgotten that was a part of the proceedings. With an uncertain look at one another, and a mild shrug of the shoulders from Guinevere, the two of them leaned in, and of all things, Lancelot should have been prepared for a _kiss_ , especially one as chaste and passionless as the one the couple shared, but he felt his jealousy flare as the cheering around him reached a new level of loud, and it made him feel so absolutely _awful_ that he had to look away and remind himself once more that _Arthur was_ **_never_ ** _his, he had_ **_no_ ** _right to feel this way._

The next second he looked up, Arthur and Guinevere were heading back down the aisle, their ceremony complete, and all around them townsfolk were weeping and applauding and throwing flowers and rice and confetti. By all means, it was the perfect wedding, and for several wonderful moments, Lancelot had enjoyed himself.

But as the king and queen headed out the doors and the knights rose from their seats, he felt the urge to rush out after them surge forth, to stand by Arthur's side, hand on his blade in case anyone tried to harm his king, but he was weaponless, clad in a suit of cloth instead of a suit of armor, and there was someone else by Arthur's side now.

He knew he wasn't being left behind. Logically, that was never the case. But as the door closed behind the newlyweds as they made their way to the carriages destined for Camelot, he had never felt so far away from what he had always known.

* * *

The bride and groom shared the first dance alone, as was customary, and among the other knights and castle workers and family and friends invited, Lancelot watched them glide across the dancefloor, still stunning as could be and looking like the perfect couple, as if they had stepped out of a dream. Their crowns had been removed for the sake of comfort as they danced, and yet they were no less breathtaking to watch. Lancelot quelled the yearning in his chest, leaning back against the wall, eyes following the spinning couple moving to the romantic tune that wafted through the air like a breeze.

"How pathetic."

Lancelot's eyes snapped away from his sovereigns, reverie shattered, and locked onto Sir Geraint, who was leaning against the wall next to him, looking at him with undisguised smugness. Lancelot bit back a growl; a verbal sparring match with the jackal was the last thing he needed. He never knew much about Geraint; the jackal had always kept to himself, with small rumors cropping up about a massacre in his family, leading to the scar that ran through one of his eyes and his awful temper, yet even that had never explained his dislike of Lancelot in particular. 

"Don't you have anything better to do than bother me?"

"Not until the king and queen have finished their dance," Geraint replied, his one amber eye still fixed on Lancelot; the other one, blue and glazed over with a scar running through it, stared blankly ahead as it always did. “Until then, I think I’m happy watching you mourn.”

Lancelot felt himself tense up. “What do you mean by that?”

“Don’t give me that crap,” Geraint spat. “You’ve been smitten with our king since we were still knights in training.”

A stab of shock and fear tore through Lancelot’s gut, and sure enough, Geraint noticed it in a second. “Oh come now, it was damn obvious if you bothered to look. I’m surprised no one else picked up on it.”

“Well,” Lancelot snapped, “maybe there was nothing to pick up on, and you were just grasping at straws for something new to hate me about.”

“I don’t need any new reasons to hate you,” Geraint returned, not missing a beat. “You took your favor from the king for granted, and now you’re cast aside just like the rest of us. Who’s the pathetic one, now?”

_What?_

“Stop speaking in riddles, fool. I don’t know of what you speak--”

“I said, _don’t give me that crap!_ ” Geraint snarled, turning a few heads in their direction before they went back to watching the newlyweds dance across the floor. In a lower voice, he continued. “You can play dumb, and hell, maybe you didn’t even realize it yourself, despite being the self-absorbed _asshole_ that you are, but I’ve always seen it. Sucking up to the king, refusing to leave his side… it’s always been more than knighthood to you, and I know it.”

It all sounded too ridiculous to be true, and yet Lancelot didn’t know if he truly could refute his fellow knight’s claims. He had no idea when his love for Arthur had been born, when it had stepped outside of the realm of only friendship. As young as knight training… that sounded far too soon, and Geraint had always been short-sighted when it came to his hatred for him, but now, with his emotions running rampant, it was hard to discern just how likely or unlikely everything was.

Geraint, the master of illusions, was weaving a new web for him with words alone, and Lancelot _hated_ it.

“And the fool you were, you never even noticed that he felt the same.”

No. No, _that_ part _had_ to be a lie. That part was most _definitely_ an illusion that Geraint had conjured up for himself, because it most _certainly_ couldn’t be true.

“And you ate up his favor like you were _starved_ for it.”

Lancelot sucked in a breath. “I don’t know where you come up with this nonsense, Geraint. Surely you understand that what you’re implying is completely out of line--”

A pair of hands gripped onto his shoulders, claws digging through the fabric of his suit, and Lancelot struggled to restrain himself from starting an outright brawl as he found himself looking into a pair of mismatched, furious eyes. Geraint’s next words came out as an enraged whisper, cutting deeper than his blade ever could.

“You arrogant piece of shit, always getting played favorite by the king, you have _no idea_ what it’s like to work so hard for so little recognition while you just _got it_ without trying, so don’t you **_dare_ ** tell me that I’m out of line!”

The music faded and the crowd around them burst into applause, and Geraint let go of Lancelot, shoving him back as he straightened out his own suit. “As if it matters anymore, I suppose. Times have changed, and I have everything to gain. Enjoy tonight, Sir Lancelot, for it’s all downhill from here for you.” And with that, Geraint disappeared into the scattering crowd, making a beeline for the red wolf who was apprenticing under Smithy, and Lancelot was left entirely unsettled. Geraint’s claims were ridiculous, completely unfounded, and entirely biased through jealousy and hatred… and yet, Lancelot didn’t know if he could deny them. Conversations with Geraint always ended poorly, with him angry and confused and questioning what was real and what was just another illusion, and once again he found himself wondering how a man such as Geraint had managed to keep his knighthood, despite his incredible battle capabilities.

“Something wrong, handsome?”

Lancelot jumped, startled. He hadn’t heard Guinevere approach him, and yet there she was, lovely as could be by his side. The hedgehog bit his lip and clenched his fists, willing himself to refocus and calm down. “It’s…” There was no point hiding anything from her; Guinevere always managed to coax anything she wanted from him in the end. “...an unpleasant conversation I’d rather not think about.”

Guinevere frowned, scanning the sea of dancers around them. “It was that jackal, wasn’t it? Sir…”

“It doesn’t matter, I don’t want to dwell on it,” Lancelot insisted, voice strained, betraying his distress, and Guinevere looked like she had much, much more to say on the subject. However, she simply sighed and offered forth her hand to him, shaking it in front of Lancelot’s face when he stared blankly back at her.

“Come on, Lance. Dance with me. It’ll help.”

Even though his mind was a mile away, he took Guinevere’s hand, reminding himself to breathe and not get trapped in his head. “I suppose I’m not in a position to refuse, am I, Your Majesty?”

“Shut up,” she returned, playfully slapping his shoulder. “You’re always free to refuse me.”

“Unless?” Lancelot prompted, leading her to a free space on the floor. His free hand found her waist, and her other hand found his shoulder, and the two swayed back and forth, finding the rhythm of the song before taking their first steps, gliding across the floor with practiced grace.

“Unless I really don’t want you to.”

That brought forth a chuckle from him, and as they turned, feet falling neatly around each other’s, Lancelot did find himself relaxing and his mind returning to what was in front of him, instead of swimming in a sea of uncertainty. Guinevere truly was an amazing person, able to read him so well and discern what she needed to do to bring him back to where he needed to be. As he brought her into a more complicated step, she followed his every move, moving fluidly like water, and the only other person Lancelot had ever known who danced so beautifully had been his sister.

_Oh Elaine… It’s been so long…_

His heart panged, not with grief, but with a bittersweet nostalgia that brought a sense of ease into his soul. Her loss, though still tragic and terrible, was no longer the chain that held him down, and every day he saw Galahad bursting forth and making him proud, he knew his sister was watching as well, in a world beyond his sight.

As the final strains of music rang out, both of Lancelot’s hands fell to Guinevere’s waist, and he lifted her up into the air, where she splayed out her arms and her wings as though trying to embrace the heavens, laughing freely without a care in the world, and Lancelot found himself smiling in spite of everything. He lowered her down as the song ended, vaguely aware of the people around them applauding their little display of skill, and Guinevere patted his cheek. “You truly are a fantastic dancer,” she praised, and then, in a whisper, she confessed, “Arthur on the other hand? Possibly the worst I’ve ever encountered.”

That was a surprise. “Really? You both seemed to be doing just fine during your dance.”

“That’s because I was the one leading from the follower’s position,” Guinevere said, waving her hand dismissively. “I know that followers are never supposed to force a lead, but I’ve never been one to play by rules that don’t work for me.”

“Well you managed to fool me,” Lancelot replied, walking with her to the edge of the dancefloor as a new song started up. “I’m sure he was grateful for you taking the lead on that one.”

“Yes, well, he’ll certainly appreciate it when you do the same.”

Lancelot felt himself tense up again, nerves bundling in his stomach. “Perhaps… that is unwise. I don’t think it would be proper for me to--”

Guinevere tapped his shoulder, shaking her head with a smile and pointing across the room, and there was Arthur, doing a dance that looked more like a stumble in a line with his father, laughing as though he were a boy again without a care in the world and nothing else mattered except for the joy he felt at that moment, surrounded by the people he loved.

“I don’t think anyone cares what’s proper during a celebration, Lance.” Her hand squeezed his shoulder as she stepped back. “Well, do what you must, but _I’m_ going to dance with every person in this room before the party ends.”

Lancelot rolled his eyes, though his smile remained. "That's a tall order."

"Perhaps," Guinevere replied with a triumphant smile, "but as you yourself said a moment ago, it's not as though anyone is in a position to refuse me." Then, more seriously, "Just promise me you won't spend the whole party on your own."

"I won't. I promise on my honor as a knight."

Satisfied with that, Guinevere gave him a small wave of the hand before walking into the crowd, looking for a free partner and then making her way over to Sir Kay, who was standing alone. Shaking his head, Lancelot scanned the crowd for any more friendly faces, determined to keep his promise, and saw his son parting ways with Smithy, an elated grin on his face. Once Galahad saw him, he perked up even more and slipped in between the other guests as he made his way forth to his father at the edge of the dancefloor.

“I saw you dancing with Queen Guinevere,” he said by way of greeting. “It was amazing! Smithy asked me if I was as good as you, and I told him ‘not yet’, but one day I hope to be!” And his son still looked at him with such unbridled admiration that warmed Lancelot’s heart in such a pure way that, for a moment, he felt cleansed of all his worries, his fears, his sins…

“Then why don’t we practice?” he offered, holding his hand out to Galahad, and his son took it without hesitation, reaching his other hand for Lancelot’s shoulder before Lancelot stopped him. “No. This time, you’ll be taking the lead.”

Galahad’s eyes narrowed in uncertainty. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. How else will you learn if you don’t practice?”

Galahad took a deep breath and nodded, lowering his hand to Lancelot’s waist. He closed his eyes, and Lancelot watched his head nod, finding the beat and the tempo before starting his first step just a moment too soon, but Lancelot followed without missing a beat. Galahad was a clumsy and uncertain dancer, but his rhythm was excellent, his lead strong, and his steps were light, not too big and not too close together. With time and practice, he would be every bit as good as Lancelot, and the elder hedgehog felt that familiar glow of pride he always felt when he thought about how one day, his son would accomplish great things that would cement his name in history for centuries.

“You see? You can do it,” he encouraged quietly, and Galahad nodded, face set in concentration. He pushed and pulled his father across the floor, never quite knocking their feet together, and when they came close, Lancelot’s own expertise told him how to avoid such a collision.

“Remember to breathe, son,” he reminded him, and Galahad’s eyes widened as he suddenly took in a deep breath, his face going red.

“I can’t believe I was so focused! Dancing is difficult, yet you make it look so easy!”

Lancelot’s thoughts once again returned to Elaine. “I had an excellent teacher.”

“You mean Mother, right?” When Lancelot didn’t reply, Galahad’s hand squeezed his. “If she truly loved to dance as well, then I must become great for her sake, too!”

_Oh Galahad… She would have adored you so much._

“I have no doubt you will.”

For a while, they continued to spin across the floor, Galahad slowly relaxing as he figured out the simple, repetitive movements, not quite ready to do any complicated moves. His face went from the pinnacle of concentration to something less stern, and his son seemed to enjoy himself as they travelled sometimes fluidly, sometimes awkwardly, across the floor.

Then his son’s eyes began to wander.

More often than not, when Lancelot was turned around, he would notice Percival in his son’s line of sight, and he supposed it wasn’t much of a surprise. The cat was all dressed up in a plum-colored gown, dancing with her brother Lamorak in a quick-stepped jig, and it was the first time Lancelot could recall seeing her in a dress. Of the three 一 well, two now that Tristan had disappeared 一 female knights of the Round Table, only Gareth wore a battle skirt, and Lancelot figured that had much to do with her traditional upbringing in Angel Village alongside Gawain and Gaheris. To see his best friend in formalwear was probably a sight to get used to for his son.

Yet as Galahad kept looking over to Percival, Lancelot started to wonder if it was something different. His son was still young, just twelve, and he didn’t want to make assumptions, but he also knew his boy better than anyone else, and the way his breath seemed to catch in his throat when he saw her, or the way his eyes lingered a moment too long, it reminded him rather unpleasantly of…

_My Galahad, do you take after me more than I thought? Are you, too, drawn to your best friend without realizing it? Will you figure it out too late?_

“Will you ask her to dance next?”

Galahad stumbled, but Lancelot kept him on his feet. His son’s face had grown red, and whether he was embarrassed from his misstep or the implication Lancelot had set forward, he wasn’t sure, but Galahad avoided eye contact as he mumbled, “I… suppose so. She’s my friend, after all. But…” His eyes flicked back up to Percival and he frowned. “She’s much better at dancing than I am.”

A rush of paternal affection coursed through Lancelot’s being, and he smiled gently at his son. “In that case, wouldn’t she also be a great teacher for you?”

Galahad thought about it, and relaxed once more. “Yes. Yes, you’re right. And this way, we can learn together, too!”

With that in mind, Galahad seemed more eager than daunted by the notion of asking for Percival’s next dance, and his newfound boldness became clear as he tried to lead his father into a more complex spin turn, resulting in him tripping over his own feet and Lancelot saving face by gripping onto his son and lowering him into a dip before he could crash to the ground.

“Perhaps not that move,” he suggested as he brought Galahad back upright, and his son laughed sheepishly.

“You’re right,” he agreed, running a hand through his pale gray quills. “Not that one. Not yet.”

The song ended and the crowd around them shifted as people sought out new partners, and Galahad held his head high as he strode over to Percival, leaving Lancelot by himself once more, which at the moment suited him just fine; the older knight decided that he would take a break from dancing for a song or two, grab something to drink and just enjoy the sight of the couples twirling in front of him. Content with his plan, he took a cup of wine from the refreshment table and found an empty space to stand by and observe.

Guinevere had chosen the newly-freed Lamorak as her next dance partner, and the two of them were showing off some wilder dance moves, swinging around each other to the beat, looking like they were having a great time. On the other side of the floor, Arthur was doing the same with his brother and his father; Uther Pendragon, even in his older age, was a strong man, able to lift and swing around both of his sons without much trouble, and Lancelot could hear Arthur and Smithy’s laughter from the other end of the room. He watched them for a long while, fixating more than he would like to on Arthur’s brilliant, joyful smile, the smile that he cherished so much, before the sound of cheering distracted him.

There was Galahad, lifting Percival high into the air by her waist as he had done with Guinevere just a few songs before, with a slight blue glow by his hands betraying how he was so easily able to lift her up as though she weighed nothing, and Percival’s eyes were closed, her shoulders relaxed, her smile soft and warm. The two cared for and trusted each other so completely, and Lancelot felt a pang of nostalgia for his own youth, back when he and Arthur were still just boys, figuring everything out with the knowledge and trust that they would always remain by each other’s side.

“It’s such a lovely party, isn’t it?”

Gareth stood to his left, watching the dancers swing by as he was, wearing an ensemble that Lancelot could only assume was traditional festive wear from her home. He confirmed his theory by following her gaze and seeing Gawain and Gaheris dancing together, in similar clothes with the same patterns as hers. Though it looked somewhat out of place in the sea of solid colors, on the three of them, who wore everything so proudly, it looked good.

“Those two have been trying to outdance each other since everything began,” she continued, her voice soft and warm with affection. “Gawain challenged Gaheris, and Gaheris hates to disappoint him.”

Sure enough, it looked as though both knights were demonstrating odd yet charming dance moves, slowly one-upping each other, and though Gawain’s face was alight with a competitive fire, Gaheris seemed to be much less fervent, quietly enjoying himself in their onesided battle.

“Those moves,” Lancelot remarked, “they look unusual. Are they from your home?”

“They are,” the echidna replied, absentmindedly fiddling with her bracelets. “Angel Village is steeped in tradition, and our dances are just another part of our upbringing.” She looked over at him, her gentle smile not fading. “Should you like, I could teach you some at the next song?”

Lancelot, remembering his promise to Guinevere, nodded. “I’d like that.”

He didn’t often spend time with Gareth, or either of her brothers, save for his occasional sparring match with Gawain; the three were frequently found in a group, bound together by blood and by upbringing in a world they didn’t always quite understand or fit into. Lancelot himself wasn’t one to reach out, always having found comfort and support in his own abilities as well as his friendship with Arthur, but Gareth’s offer was welcome to him.

The two stood together in comfortable silence for a while, listening to the music play and watching the dancers move, until Gareth broke the silence again. “Things will change a lot from now on,” she remarked softly. “With the king now married, soon the knights will start thinking of their own futures.”

Lancelot frowned, finding himself fiddling with his own rings as well. “You think so?”

“I do. We’re all reaching that age where we start to think about what it is that we really want for ourselves, and whether or not we can afford to attain it.”

Lancelot hummed in reply, mind wandering to Arthur, knowing that what he wanted was unattainable, and so a knight to the end he would remain. “And you? Are you thinking of settling?”

Gareth laughed, a sound so light that it was almost erased by the music in the air. “No, not at all. I’ve never loved as such and I doubt I ever will. It’s a strange thing… though romance remains foreign to me, I can’t say that I am without love. I love our land, our king and queen, my siblings and my fellow knights with all my heart, and that’s why I’m happiest as I am now, as a knight.”

Lancelot regarded Gareth curiously, and the orange echidna stood calm under his observation. She spoke simply and clearly, someone with nothing to hide, and Lancelot didn’t doubt for a second the extent of her love for all. Someone who, like he, was happily devoted to her job… and who, unlike himself, was free from the burdens of desiring someone she could never have.

Lancelot looked back over at the knights grouped up on the dancefloor, trying to imagine any of them settling down, but it was a struggle. For so long, every one of them had been entirely devoted to their job, and it was hard to think of any of them meeting someone new, or getting married, or having children, yet he couldn’t deny that Gareth had a point. For as long as they lived and breathed, people would surprise each other until the end of time.

As one song ended and another started up, Lancelot offered Gareth his hand, and the two made their way to the floor, Gareth instructing him to take both of her hands in both of his instead of the typical hold he was used to, and as she slowly guided him into a basic step pattern, he was taken in by the odd but charming new way of moving. _One-and-two, three-and-four…_

“You’re learning quickly,” Gareth praised as she let go of one of his hands to complete a spin. “Well done!”

“It’s different,” Lancelot replied, sliding one foot to the side as the other tapped at the ground, mirroring his partner, “but fun.”

Gareth smiled sweetly at him. “I’m glad. Not many are so open and welcoming to our way of doing things.”

“Was it a big change, coming to Camelot?” Lancelot asked.

“Very. The way people talk and the manners people use are very restricted here, but other things, such as how people are allowed to dress and… well, _act,_ in this case, are much freer.”

“Act?” Lancelot pressed, and Gareth flushed, looking downward.

“In Angel Village, when people get married, it’s considered highly inappropriate for anyone to dance with the bride or groom on their wedding day, yet that’s not the case here. I suppose it's a cultural difference.”

“Interesting…” Lancelot looked back out into the crowd, eyes picking out Guinevere in an instant, as she swung around the room with Sir Bors. Not too far away, Arthur was dancing with his mother; Igraine Pendragon said something to her son, and though Lancelot couldn’t make out what it was, it was apparently enough to fluster Arthur and make her laugh in response. Lancelot turned his attention back to Gareth.

“Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“Not as much as I thought,” she replied, carefully stepping around his feet. “I’ve come to find that a lot of things are much easier to handle than the horror stories I heard at home from people who had never ventured forth to see things for themselves.”

Gareth’s company was proving to be pleasant and intriguing, and Lancelot had many, many more questions about Angel Village and their customs, but before he could ask another thing, a sudden streak of purple whirled past them, coming to a stop before King Arthur. It was Dindrane, the swallow who apprenticed under Smithy, clad in a midnight blue gown and sporting a rather stunned look.

"Your Majesty King Arthur?" she spoke, prompting him to step away from his mother. "There's a visitor to see you."

"A visitor?" Arthur echoed, and Lancelot stopped his dance with Gareth. He wasn't the only one; all around them, people were pausing in their festivities to discover more about this new intrusion.

"Two visitors, to be precise," Dindrane corrected herself, linking her fingers together. "And I think you ought to see them."

There was a lull in the music, and everyone stood still, waiting for their king's next move, yet all knew what he would say next.

"Very well. Send them in."

The swallow curtsied and made her way back through the crowd, disappearing around the corner as she went to fetch the newcomers. For a long while, all was still, no one quite daring enough to break the silence as the sound of footsteps approached, and as the visitors came into view, a loud gasp resounded from all over.

_No… could it really be…?_

"It's been a long time, Your Majesty."

Tristan stood before them all, her armor in shambles and her helmet missing, a new scar running across the bridge of her nose, her hair disheveled, looking overall exhausted and nervous, but determined. Beside her was a lovely dark brown lynx, appearing just as messy as her companion, her dress in tatters and small cuts and bruises all along her arms and shoulders.

It didn't take a genius to guess that this was the runaway princess Yseult with her.

Tristan took a few steps forward, looking out of place in the midst of so many people dressed their finest, and radiant Arthur walked forth to meet her halfway, a myriad of mixed emotions in his eyes. Biting her lip, Tristan spoke first.

"I know what I've done amounts to desertion. I know that I may no longer be a knight again, but I must tell you that I had no other choice. When I realized that I had brought someone into a marriage they did not wish for, one that would lead to endless unhappy days, I knew something had to be done. It went against my code, both as a knight and as a person, to let such an end come to pass, and with such little time to come up with a plan, I did the first thing I could think of… I ran off with Princess Yseult, vowing to protect her from harm and from my uncle’s wrath.”

Tristan brushed her fingers through her auburn hair, wincing a little as they tangled in the knots and clumps that hid therein. “In my haste to take action, I betrayed my own home, my family, an action that still disturbs me to this day, but I did it with the hope that I would have another home and family to come back to, but a run in with my uncle’s patrol of the forests left me injured and unable to move for several weeks. It was Yseult that saved me, then, tending to me and thanking me for all that I’ve done for her, and I suppose, despite everything… I can’t regret what I have done.”

Tristan knelt down in front of Arthur, head bowed low. “I understand if I can never be your knight again,” she said quietly, yet her words carried all around. “I understand if you are unable to forgive me for what I’ve done in my haste. I know that, if word gets to Acorn Kingdom that you have granted myself and Yseult refuge, it may destroy any alliance between you… but I am willing to do what it takes to protect you. I am willing to change my name, discard my past, never touch a sword again and live in exile… but I had to come back, even if for one last time, for you will always be my king.”

“Stand.”

Tristan’s head snapped up and she raised herself to her feet, unsteady and uncertain, but when Arthur drew her into his arms, she melted into the hug and returned it. “I forgive you,” Arthur said. “Of course I forgive you, and nothing would make me happier than to have you back among my ranks.”

There it was, Arthur’s beautiful mercy, given so easily and so unconditionally to those he cared for, even if perhaps it wasn’t the best idea in the long term, but that was what made Arthur their king. It was just another thing for everyone to love him for. Another thing about him that Lancelot respected and adored.

As Tristan and Arthur separated, the king called for the celebration to continue, and from all corners, the knights of the Round Table flooded over to greet Tristan again and to meet Yseult. The music started up again, but when Lancelot turned back to Gareth, she shook her head, a massive grin on her face. “I apologize, Sir Lancelot, but I simply must see Tristan again.”

“I understand,” he returned, remembering the two having been rather close, and with a final curtsy to him, Gareth slipped through the crowd, greeting Tristan with a hug of her own.

Lancelot grabbed a new cup of wine and absentmindedly sipped from it as he waited for the crowds to disperse. Nearby, Bedivere and Merlina were standing by as well, watching the people gather around Tristan and Yseult, asking questions and exchanging greetings and crying out their joy or their dissent. As he waited, Lancelot’s head began to grow foggy, and his eyes narrowed in confusion, looking down at his drink. Perhaps the wine had been stronger than he thought.

Putting the cup aside, he started to wonder how he himself felt about the whole situation; Tristan and Yseult’s tale bore a stunning resemblance to the one between him, Arthur and Guinevere, but Tristan had taken a risk and had reaped the rewards and losses it came with. Lancelot had done no such thing, but what could he have done? Run off into the great unknown with Arthur, hoping that he would be able to abandon all he knew? Left behind Guinevere, who would remain under the harsh control of her parents?

No. No matter how he looked at it, the way things had played out was the best possible way it could have ended. Lancelot still had his knighthood. Lancelot still had his son. Lancelot still had his friendship with Arthur and with Guinevere, and with time hopefully the romantic feelings would fade, and he would be able to live his life as he should.

The music shifted, slowing down considerably. People began to pair up again, and in the middle of the room, Tristan and Yseult found each other, arms clasped around one another, and as they swayed slowly back and forth, gently smiling at one another, Lancelot saw the looks they shared, the looks that came from two people who had been through the harshest of circumstances together and had come out closer than anyone could truly comprehend.

It seemed that their tale, too, was a tale of love.

Lancelot kept looking around, head still swimming in mild intoxication. Arthur’s parents were dancing together, looking marvelous despite the years growing on them. Nearby, Guinevere was offering her hand to Gawain, who looked incredibly flustered, yet with the information Gareth had given him about weddings in Angel Village, it made sense. In the end, Gawain took the hand offered to him, also bound to his duty to serve his sovereigns, and Lancelot wondered if Guinevere truly would be able to convince everyone at the party to dance before the celebration ended.

His son was still dancing with Percival, the young ones laughing and having the time of their lives without caring for the tempo of the song, in their own little world. Dindrane had rejoined the party, and was dancing in a circle with Kay and Lamorak, the three birds shuffling all around and chatting amongst themselves, seeming completely at peace. To his right, Gaheris was trying to convince Bedivere to dance, finally free of Gawain’s challenge, but the chameleon kept refusing until Bors appeared and lifted him clean off the ground, taking him to the dancefloor with Gaheris in tow, and Bedivere only halfheartedly tried to wiggle out of the massive crocodile’s grasp.

In another spot, Gareth was teaching Smithy some of the dance moves she had taught Lancelot just a few moments prior, and the young fox stuck out his tongue in concentration as he tried to follow along. It seemed as though Geraint had ultimately been successful in his pursuit of the red wolf 一 _Enid? Yes, that was his name_ 一 as the two were dragging their feet in an uncoordinated dance, bickering all the while.

And watching them all was Arthur, who looked on with such pride and happiness on his face that Lancelot felt his heart melt.

Their eyes met.

Perhaps it was the wine, or the knowledge that this might be the last chance he would ever have to ask such a thing of his king, but Lancelot’s feet moved before he realized what was happening, and when he stopped in front of Arthur, he offered forth his hand.

“May I have this dance?”

Arthur laughed, and for one terrifying moment Lancelot thought that he had somehow revealed everything, or made an utter fool of himself, but Arthur took his hand the next moment and chortled, "You're too stiff, Lancelot. Come on, let's have fun."

Their hands fit together like two pieces of a puzzle, and the pristine white material of Arthur’s suit wrinkled lightly where Lancelot’s hand braced his waist, and their faces lined up perfectly as their dance started, and Guinevere was absolutely right, Arthur was the _worst_ dancer Lancelot had ever come across. Even with Lancelot’s lead, he tried to step too far, or too fast, and with every other movement, Arthur’s foot or shin would collide with his own, and his partner would curse under his breath.

“Come on, it’s not so difficult,” Lancelot insisted. “Follow the music, not your instincts. One step forward, now two steps back--”

“We’re not all perfect like you,” Arthur retorted, and though it was a playful jab at him, it took Lancelot’s breath away for a moment. As they kept stumbling to the music, it hit Lancelot all at once that there was nowhere else in the world that he would rather be than here, with this glorious buffoon stepping on his toes and swearing as he did so. He wanted nothing more than to keep Arthur in his hold as the music swelled, unable to look away from his dearest friend’s face as it screwed up in concentration and frustration.

Lancelot abandoned all hope that he had that his feelings would one day fade; he knew he would love this man until the day he died.

“Guinevere was right,” he said, finally finding his tongue. “You’re terrible at this.”

“Hey!” Arthur shot back, frown shifting into a grin, “I’ll have you know that I’m a fantastic dancer. Just not this kind of dance. Too slow for me.”

Lancelot’s heart fell. “Do you wish to stop?”

Arthur was quiet for a while as the music swelled again. “...No.”

And so they danced, legs knocking against each other, hands clasped together and bodies and faces so close. Arthur’s eyes, deep pools of the lushest green, drew Lancelot’s gaze away from anything but him, and they looked back as though equally hypnotized.

The song was drawing to a close, but Lancelot wasn’t ready to let go. He wasn’t ready for this moment to end, for this night to end, to go into a new life where Arthur was married and Lancelot would always look up to his sun, always admiring but never able to touch. He was touching him now, had him in his grasp, warm and vibrant and too splendid for words to accurately describe.

_He didn’t want to let go._

He heard the final strains of music cease and felt their feet shuffle into stillness, still in each other’s hold, and perhaps it was the wine, or the giddiness of being so close to him, but Lancelot wanted to say something, _anything,_ that would keep this moment from ending.

“Arthur… I--”

The music started up again, fast and joyous, a shot of pure adrenaline and dopamine to the crowd who whooped and cheered and danced in earnest delight, and suddenly Arthur was grinning that grin of his, dropping his hand from his shoulder and moving his waist away from his grasp, and yet their joined hands remained clasped together. “This is what I was talking about!” Arthur cheered, pulling Lancelot along to an empty space on the floor, practically on his toes with eagerness. “Let me show you what I can really do!”

And though Arthur’s hand left his, Lancelot didn’t feel as though anything was missing, because as he watched his friend dance alone, a whirlwind in the air and on the floor, messing up his pristine suit with dust and sweat and shattering any semblance of being a perfect, fairy tale groom, he was glowing with such unabashed joy that was so much better and so _real_ that Lancelot found himself smiling in spite of himself and joining in. As he dropped to the ground as Arthur did, swinging his legs around to loud cheers from onlookers and one very delighted “YES! GO LANCELOT!” from his king, he figured that this was just as good as before.

Anything would be just as good, so long as it kept him by Arthur’s side until the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fellas, is it gay to dance with your best friend/king/love of your life at his wedding?
> 
> So I finally gave Gadget and Wave their new names, since I didn't want to be lazy and do what I did with Longclaw with them. Gadget is Enid, who was Geraint's wife in Arthurian legends and the one that Geraint put through a bunch of trials to prove her faithfulness and devotion to him. Wave is Dindrane, which was supposedly the name of one of Lamorak and Percival's sisters, though this character in question was typically known just as 'Percival's sister'. I wanted a name that had something to do with Lamorak and/or Kay, but there was very little to go off of.
> 
> Also I have no idea where aromantic Gareth (Tikal) came from, but she happened and now she's here and you know what that's great.
> 
> I like to think that the final slow song is Live Life by Crush 40. I also like to think that the fast song right afterwards is Knight of the Wind by Crush 40. I just like to think that the band playing at Arthur and Guinevere's wedding reception is SatBK-verse Crush 40. King Arthur invented breakdancing, so take that history books!
> 
> There's honestly a lot I have to say about this chapter but there's a character limit so I will refrain but I really hope it's enjoyable! I like it a lot, personally, so I hope that it's fun to read. You can also find me on tumblr @teamxdark if you have any other questions about this story; I'd love to answer them!
> 
> And as always, I want to thank all of you for your support. We've shattered another milestone; we've broken 1000 hits! It means so much to me that you're all here to have fun with this alongside me, and I hope it keeps being enjoyable until the end.
> 
> Next chapter: Guinevere's reign begins, which means a lot more adventuring is in store! Unfortunately for Gawain, he finds himself dealing with his new queen more than he thinks appropriate.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when 5k words was considered a long chapter for me and wasn't just par for the course?
> 
> Yeah, me neither.

Spring quickly drew to an end, and summer burst forth, warm and vibrant. The royal wedding had concluded a few months prior, and much had changed since then. Gawain considered everything from the shade of a column in the courtyard; there had been a big shift in King Arthur’s mood, to start. No longer did he look as though he was shouldering a massive weight while keeping a smile plastered on his face; once Queen Guinevere had stepped into the picture and taken the reins when she could, his king started looking lighter, brighter, freer. He went on adventures again, with Sir Lancelot or Percival or Gawain himself to accompany him, and he roamed the lands with his unmatched speed once more. King Arthur walked around with a reclaimed youthful glow, as he had when Gawain was first knighted, and whenever he stood by his wife, the two were always grinning and chatting, even in the middle of what sounded like important plans, giving and taking responsibility and freedom in equal measures.

Gawain was amazed at how quickly and easily King Arthur had been able to find someone to love.

His sister Gareth had been entirely right in her prediction; the knights, inspired by their king’s newfound joy, were beginning to reflect on their own lives and what they wished to add to them. Sir Bors, to the surprise of everyone, had been the first to make a major change, striding into Castle Camelot one day alongside a young bee who couldn’t seem to stay still.

“His name is Elyan,” the crocodile had said proudly, “and he’s my son.”

Just like with Galahad, Elyan had become a fixture in the castle, often found flying circles around his father or Sir Bedivere, who had taken a shine to the child as well. The trio were always together, forming an odd but charming little family.

In a similar vein, Sirs Kay and Lamorak were spending more time with Dindrane from Smithy’s workshop; the swallow had taken to modifying their riding equipment, a service that didn’t go unthanked, as Sir Lamorak never failed to boast about his superior equipment to match his title. The three birds shared meals and days off together, with a strange bond that seemed to overstep the realm of friendship but never reach a romantic level, something that Gareth seemed to admire as she watched the three of them spend their days as a group.

Sir Geraint had doubled and redoubled his efforts to court Enid, and Tristan, though still in disgrace in the eyes of the court, was working her way up to being reknighted with Yseult devotedly holding her hand every step of the way. All around him, it appeared as though people were finding love and family and transcending the bonds of simple camaraderie that Gawain had thought, perhaps shortsightedly, that they would all share until their time had come to an end.

It was different, yes, but not bad. In fact, the only thing that really bothered him nowadays was--

“Oh, Sir Gawain~” came the sing-song call, and the knight tensed up, gritting his teeth together.

_Her._

Queen Guinevere sauntered up to him, smirking that unapologetic smirk of hers, and Gawain knew how the rest of the day was going to go. The queen had taken to bringing all the knights on her own adventures, usually exploration, but she favored Sir Lancelot above all and frequently sought him out. Now and again she would take Sir Bedivere along with her, cryptically stating that his abilities were required, and the chameleon’s face would remain unreadable as he followed her out the door.

And for some unknown reason, when it wasn’t Sirs Lancelot or Bedivere, Queen Guinevere would usually come seeking out Gawain to follow her in her more dangerous quests, and bound by duty as he was, he would go with her every time, making sure that they both came back in one piece. These quests typically involved travelling into the wilderness, following leads about hidden treasures, and more often than not, his queen could sniff them out like she had a sixth sense for gemstones.

An unconventional queen, to be certain. One who took his understanding of the world and crushed it in her hands, rebuilding it into something that suited her better, and though it annoyed, confused and frustrated him more often than not to serve someone so wild, unpredictable, and unashamed… he had to respect her for who she was, with or without her status.

And so, despite his apprehension at the prospect of spending yet another day questing with her, he bowed his head in greeting.

“I’ve gotten a juicy new piece of intel,” Queen Guinevere announced, casually fiddling with a lock of hair between her thumb and forefinger, “and I think it’s exactly what I’ve been looking for, for a long time.” At his silence, she frowned, putting her hands on her hips. “Well? Aren’t you going to ask me what it is?”

Gawain felt himself glare, and without thinking, retorted, “Why would I? This is the part where you tell me anyhow.”

Crap, he did it again; let his temper get the better of him, speaking out of line, disrespecting those who he had pledged his loyalty to, disgracing himself… yet the queen let out a short bark of laughter before snarking right back.

“Very clever, Sir Gawain, and fine, perhaps you have a point.” Her hand went to her chest, sliding underneath the collar of her gown, and Gawain, embarrassed, looked away. “So modest,” the queen teased, and the knight growled under his breath. _Had this woman no shame?_ “You can look now, I swear I’m decent.”

From underneath her dress, Queen Guinevere had taken out a necklace, on which three large verdant shards of a gemstone were hanging loosely. The sight of the stones stirred something within Gawain, and he found himself intrigued in spite of himself. “Supposedly, there are many shards of a massive emerald lying around Avalon, G.U.N. and other neighboring kingdoms,” Queen Guinevere explained once she realized she had his attention. “Once all the pieces are collected, the result should be…” She hummed, pursing her lips in thought. “...about the size of you and me put together.” Her fingers tapped against the shards. “So as you can see, it’s still a work in progress.” The necklace slipped back underneath the neckline of her dress as she looked at him expectantly.

“And I take it you’ve found where another piece is?”

“Even better.” The queen flashed him a mischievous grin, completely unbecoming for someone of her rank. “I’ve found where another… oh, twelve or so are.”

Gawain thought back to the past few days; Queen Guinevere asking for Sir Bedivere’s aid when the knight was reknown for his intelligence-gathering, frequently shutting herself in the library… “Using your new influence for good, I see.”

“How bold of you to say,” she returned, and Gawain wanted to smack himself in the forehead, for surely _this_ was the time he had offended her and would face a punishment most severe--

“But not incorrect. I won’t deny that it’s certainly a perk of being queen to have access to intelligence such as this.”

_At least she was honest._

“And of course,” she continued, completely unconcerned with how tense he was, “I want you to accompany me as I search them out.”

Gawain let out a breath, feeling his frustration rise. “My queen, if I may ask you something?”

“Yes?”

“Why do you always choose me to go with you?”

And Queen Guinevere laughed in that dainty way that she did with the back of her hand in front of her mouth. “Why Sir Gawain, are you truly asking me why I ask the Guardian Knight to guard me? I thought it was rather obvious.”

There she went again, ending the conversation without really answering his question, and leaving him feeling a fool for asking. Gawain set his jaw, wishing he had his helmet so he could slam his visor down and be free to glower. Queen Guinevere glowed with satisfaction, practically floating past him. “Go get your armor, Sir Gawain. I’ll be expecting you at the drawbridge in an hour.”

And being the knight that he was, he knew he didn’t have a choice.

* * *

When she went on adventures, Queen Guinevere wore trousers.

Now, Gawain wasn’t unused to seeing a woman wear trousers; he had worked alongside Sir Tristan for many years, and Sir Percival for several months, but they were knights. Their profession called for rough, dirty work and leaving behind several of the aspects of life that Gawain associated with femininity. However, this was the queen, the picture of femininity itself, somehow able to pull such a look without detracting from her regalness, nor gaining any semblance of the tougher-than-leather quality that all knights seemed to gain the second they pulled on their armor. The dissonance between what Gawain was used to and what was in front of him confused him, but he silently accepted it, because what other choice was there?

Besides, he knew, logically, that to go questing in a gown was counterproductive.

Queen Guinevere travelled a few paces ahead of him, a map in her hands, covered in elegant little scribbles and markings. Now and again, she would take pause, consider her surroundings, and reorient herself before setting off again, and Gawain followed, thinking about this newest quest and the odd pull the stone’s fragments had on him, and in the end, his curiosity got the better of him.

“My lady?”

“Hm?”

“What else could you tell me about this gem we are to piece together?”

The queen looked at him from over her shoulder. “Taking an interest, are we? Glad to hear it.” Looking back in front of herself, she spoke loudly so her voice would carry. “Legend has it that there was a massive emerald that sat somewhere on the border between Avalon and G.U.N. This emerald supposedly held powers beyond the understanding of most, and with time, awe for its might turned into fear. It was smashed, broken into pieces, and scattered across the land, and the records of where each piece lied was buried with time.” Queen Guinevere rolled up her map and tapped it in the palm of her hand. “And I want to find them all and put them back together again.”

Gawain furrowed his brow; that story sounded incredibly similar to the legend of his village’s ancient lost treasure. “This emerald… the legend says that it originated in between here and G.U.N? Did it happen to be--”

“Angel Village?” The queen glanced back at him yet again with a cheeky smile. “You’re right.”

“Frankly, even with your research, I’m surprised you’ve heard of it.”

"Geography is just another one of my many talents," she replied, stepping carefully over a tree root. “It was a surprise to find that it’s not listed on many maps. May I ask if it has anything to do with the treasure’s disappearance?”

Gawain blinked in surprise. “That’s right. Our ancestors tried to hide our village from outsiders after our prized heirloom was destroyed. They had done so in order to protect us and our way of life from any more destruction.”

Queen Guinevere hummed. “That’s a shame… Well, perhaps once I have passed on, I’ll leave the emerald to your village?”

“Once you’ve passed on?” Gawain echoed, prompting a laugh from the queen.

“Of course! I’m the one doing all the work to find it and put it back together again, so while I’m still alive, it’s mine to keep. Besides…” She stopped in her tracks and turned to face him, a sly smirk playing on her lips as she shot out an arm to poke one of Galatine’s blades. “An eye for an eye, wouldn’t you say?”

Gawain instinctively swatted her hand away, battling back both regret and satisfaction at his action. “What did I tell you about touching my weapon?” he snapped, stepping out of arm’s reach.

“And didn’t I tell _you,_ ” Queen Guinevere shot back, “that that blade of yours originates from _my_ kingdom?”

“That doesn’t make it yours to take!”

The queen laughed again, a bit more loudly, before clapping her hands together. “Oh, you’re far too easy to rile up, Sir Gawain! Learn to relax, or you’ll find yourself in an early grave!”

The red warrior felt his irritation reach an unbearable peak, and he thundered back, “You’ll send me into one before the day is out if you don’t stop messing with me! Would it kill you to be less overbearing?!”

Teal eyes widened in shock, and Gawain bit down on his tongue, closing his eyes, finding comfort in the darkness as the rage slowly ebbed. “I apologize… that was out of line.”

“Don’t apologize,” came the soft reply, and again, Gawain found himself completely and utterly unable to understand the lady before him as his eyes opened once more. “If I’m going too far, the only way to stop me is to say so, is it not?”

“Yes,” he agreed, “but to do so without disrespect is the best policy.”

Queen Guinevere sighed, reaching up to twirl a lock of snowy hair around her finger. “Gawain,” she started, omitting the ‘Sir’ as though they were on equal ground or close friends or any other relationship that didn’t make sense for them to have, “as queen, I’m required to bring a knight along with me on my travels. Such are the rules of the court. I have every confidence in myself that I could complete my task alone, but as things stand right now, such a thing is not possible for me.”

Gawain nodded, silently wondering what any of this had to do with what just happened.

“You asked me earlier why I choose you so frequently, and this is why. Whether you mean to or not, you tell me exactly what you think and what you want. I don’t have to guess with you, nor do I have to worry that you’re putting on a show, simply because of my status. What you see as disrespect, I see as respect, because I cannot tell you how sick and tired I am of being lied to, just to save face. I hated it back in G.U.N. and I'll hate it here as well.” Her eyes bore into his, and Gawain found that he couldn’t quite move as his mind tried to make sense of what he had just heard. “Until you prove to me otherwise, I believe you are someone I can trust, both to tell me what he thinks, and to protect my wellbeing.”

Gawain finally looked away, his face growing warm. “I… don’t quite understand you.”

Queen Guinevere took a few steps forward, patting his arm. “You don’t need to,” she assured him. “Just tell me what’s on your mind and don’t hold back. I’ll make it an order if that makes it easier to do for you.”

“You wish to order disrespect from me?”

She hummed, nodding her head. “Sounds almost right. Just no blatant insults to my character, there _is_ a line, and if you cross it, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Try as he might, Gawain was unable to bite back a groan. “This will… take some getting used to.”

“Well,” the queen replied with a shrug, “in the meantime, we’ve got an entire lost treasure to piece back together, so let’s quit wasting daylight, shall we?”

As he continued to follow the bat through fields and around trees, Gawain wondered what he had managed to get himself into this time.

* * *

Their first stop was a quaint little area, seemingly untouched by people for generations; the grass was lush and wild, with no patches in sight, the trees stood tall and proud, and a small brook ran through it all, like the final piece to a picturesque puzzle.

So when Queen Guinevere crouched down and began digging into the earth without a second thought, Gawain mourned the loss of peace.

“Should be around here somewhere,” she muttered, clawing deep into the ground, dirt piling up beside her as she searched around. 

“Somewhere?” Gawain demanded. “You mean you don’t know where it is?”

“I know it is here, simply… not the exact coordinates.”

Gawain groaned, turning away to avoid seeing the gorgeous landscape get any more defiled than it already was by this treasure-hunter. He heard her grunt and the sound of soil loosening assaulted his eardrums much more loudly than he would have liked. He stood by, arms crossed, until he heard a loud sigh and a ‘I suppose it’s not here. Maybe over there…”

She would dig up this entire meadow if she didn’t find this damn shard, and the thought made Gawain spring into action.

His eyes scanned the ground, looking for any possible lumps or craters in the ground, but it remained uniform all around… yet something told him to check again to his right. Something resonated within him, a tug toward a patch of grass that looked the same as any other, and yet… there was _something_ about this spot that…

Gawain closed his eyes, remembering the words of his village elders. _Trust your instincts, Gawain. Yours are the strongest I’ve ever seen._

With that in mind, he started digging.

Even though he, too, was destroying the serene beauty of the meadow, his instincts told him to keep going, that there was meaning to his actions, that this disruption could be forgiven, that something magnificent lied just beyond his reach…

His hand closed around something, and he tugged it out of the ground; a verdant stone glimmered in his grasp, and Gawain’s breath caught in his throat.

So this was just a _fragment_ of his people’s legendary lost treasure…?

“Incredible!”

The queen was by his side in a flash, eyes wide with delight as she looked over his new acquisition, grinning from ear to ear. “You found it on your own, just like that? Looks like I’ve found myself a natural emerald detector!” One of her hands squeezed his shoulder while the other swiped the fragment from his hand, and Gawain fought back the urge to snatch it right back. “I knew I brought you along for a reason!”

The red knight frowned. “I thought it was because you trusted me to speak my mind to you?”

“Hm?” The queen glanced back at him and patted his shoulder. “That too, darling. That too.”

As Gawain flustered at the new, _highly unprofessional_ nickname, Queen Guinevere slid the fragment into her satchel, clapping her hands together to get rid of any excess dirt and taking a small leap into the air in joy. Gawain stayed by the ground, refocusing his energy into placing the earth back into the ground where it belonged. It would remain a patch for a long time; the grass was disturbed, and the scar on the meadow would remain, but he still did his best to put things back to how he had found them before he had intruded on this land. As he patted the soil flat, he looked up and saw the queen doing the same to her own holes in the ground.

She stood up, wiping her hands off, and asked him, “Are you ready for the next one?”

Instead of answering her, Gawain kept looking to the ugly patches of earth that had been disrupted in a once-perfect area, feeling a sense of remorse until a hand on his back brought him back to reality.

“It’ll grow back. Everything recovers at some point, but that emerald? That’s something that would have been lost forever if you hadn’t taken action. Be proud, Gawain, and trust the world to look after itself where it can.”

And somehow, Gawain did feel a spark of pride glow within him at his queen’s words.

* * *

Their next stop was a mountain.

Gawain may have been a slow traveller 一 prompting many complaints from his headstrong companion 一 but luckily, he was a rapid climber, able to scale up the side of the mountain as quickly as Queen Guinevere was able to fly up.

There was something exhilarating about climbing, being able to flex his dexterous fingers again as he found each handhold, no matter how small or difficult to cling onto. It reminded him of his childhood, forming climbing competitions with the other children, his siblings by his side. For a moment, Gawain was overtaken by nostalgia for a simpler time, until a summoning call from his queen brought him back to the present.

“Over here!”

Queen Guinevere stood on a flat space of land, only a few meters before it gave way to a rocky cliff. In front of them was a massive pile of boulders and gravel, piled high to the point that, if it weren’t for the smoother stretches of rock all around, it might have been mistaken for the mountainside itself.

“A cave-in?” Gawain guessed, and his companion nodded.

“It’s been said that this mountain holds many caves, but landslides and erosion have hidden most of them from view,” she explained, lifting a hand to point at the wall of rock in front of them. “And what say you, Sir Gawain? Is this the right cave?”

The knight frowned. Surely she was joking? His instincts had kicked in once, but that hardly meant that he would be able to sense out every last shard of the emerald. All the same, to appease her, he placed his hands flat against the closest boulder, and…

_There it was again!_

“It’s in there,” he said without thinking, and Queen Guinevere clapped her hands together in excitement.

“Then let’s get to it!”

And to Gawain’s utter bewilderment and horror, she strode up to the nearest boulder and started kicking at it until it crumbled.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!”

He grabbed at her arm and tugged her away as, sure enough, rocks began to fall down from overhead. “Are you _trying_ to cause an avalanche?” he hissed.

“If that’s what it takes to get the cave uncovered,” she replied, seeming unconcerned.

“You would get crushed flat!”

“Not if I dodge first,” she replied smoothly. “Or have you forgotten that I can fly?”

Gawain spluttered. Did she really not care for how much danger she was putting them in? “That’s fantastic, but I cannot! Or have you forgotten that I’m here as well?”

She smirked at him, having far too much fun driving his stress levels to new records. “Feel free to hide if you’d prefer.”

Gawain growled, squaring his shoulders and approaching another boulder; he wasn’t going to let her show him up. “As if!”

His hands grasped at the boulder, and with all his strength, he tugged and pulled at it until he wrenched it out of the ground and let it fall down the cliff behind him, and as the rocks fell down from above, he punched any that fell his way, shattering them in the air, determined to show his worth.

“That’s more like it,” the queen said, her satisfied smirk never fading, and as they kept clawing and kicking their way through a centuries-old avalanche, Gawain knew that he had been goaded into this dangerous and risky endeavor. He didn’t understand why she couldn’t just ask for his aid in a more straightforward way, one that didn’t get his blood boiling.

Yet as they cleared the way into the cavern and found the fifth shard lying in wait, he found that he didn’t mind as much as he originally thought.

* * *

The sun was beginning to set once they had gotten to the resting place of the sixth shard; it was to be their final heist of the day, and the rest would have to wait for another time. It didn’t seem to bother Queen Guinevere at all 一 she had finally made progress in her goal, and if this final attempt went well, she would have double the fragments that she had for years before today.

As for Gawain, well… despite the annoyances, the confusion, the struggle to stay on the same page as such a wild and determined woman… he had to admit that treasure hunting with her was oddly enjoyable.

They slid alongside another cliff face, this time looking down over a rushing curtain of water. Gawain was confident in his ability to swim, but the sheer drop from the top down to the bottom of the waterfall was dizzying, and his armor would do not much to save him from the jagged rocks at the bottom. He glanced to his side, making sure Queen Guinevere was keeping steady as she shuffled along the rocks, eyes focused on her prize; the final shard of the day was wedged between two stones, hidden behind the shower of water, near the top of the waterfall. The queen wasn’t sporting her usual smirk or smoulder; her eyes were focused on the emerald fragment, her face set in determination. As they got closer and closer to their objective, drops and spray misted over them, making it harder to keep their grip on the cliff behind them, but both moved along, undeterred.

As the queen reached her hand underneath the curtain of water, fumbling about for the emerald fragment, Gawain held his breath in anticipation, watching carefully for any signs that she would lose her balance, but she persevered, and soon enough, she was holding the fragment up in the air in triumph, where it caught the final rays of the sun in the sky.

“Well done,” he congratulated, feeling a grin of his own spread across his own face while his queen beamed.

“Did you really expect anything less?” she returned, tone teasing and playful as she carefully slipped the fragment into her satchel…

...and her foot slipped on the wet stone underneath her as she went to turn back to him.

Teal eyes widened in shock and disbelief as she lost her balance, falling away from the side of the cliff, waterlogged wings batting uselessly, unable to catch any air as she fell backwards, plummeting down toward the sharp rocks below.

Gawain didn’t hesitate to jump after her.

His stomach lurched as he caught her by the hand, her added weight and the spray from the water making gliding considerably more difficult, but he grit his teeth and persevered, refusing to let either of them fall to their doom. They fell lower and lower, and the cliff face drew closer and closer agonizingly slowly as Gawain’s hand reached forth and…

_Of course! Galatine!_

Quick as he could, he drew out one of his trusty blades and dug it firmly into the stone, stopping them with a jolt that felt like it would rip his arm off.

The blood pounded in his ears, combining with the roaring of the water next to them in an overwhelming rush of sound, and down below, the queen was gripping onto his hand with both of hers, eyes still wide and body stiff with shock.

She wouldn’t be able to do much in that state.

Gawain glanced around; to rescale the wall would be impossible at this point, and to drop again would be unwise, for even with the ground much closer than before, the sharp rocks and water at the bottom of the drop spelled ruin for both them. Breathing heavily, Gawain tried to think fast before his arms strained too much and the decision would be made for him.

There was a ledge, not too far away. Not very wide, but it looked sturdy enough to hold the two of them while they recovered. It was lower down, to their right, and as Gawain’s fingers started to slip from Galatine’s handle, he knew that there wasn’t any room to debate.

“Hold on!” he called down, and he felt the grip on him tighten like a vice.

With that, he started swinging, shifting his grip as they travelled further and further from side to side, the ledge in sight. From below, he felt the queen’s fingers dig into his wrist.

“Gawain!” she called up in a furious panic. “Gawain, _don’t you dare_ \--”

With a final swing, Gawain ripped Galatine from the cliff’s edge and focused all his energies on gliding to their destination, kicking off of the rock face for an extra boost as they both hurtled through the air, Queen Guinevere crying out in terror, but Gawain’s instincts proved great once more, and they both crashed onto the ledge, bruised and exhausted and tense, but alive.

Not the most elegant of landings, but it worked, and that’s what mattered.

For a long moment, both of them caught their breath, panting as the adrenaline faded and the world came back into focus. Gawain finally felt his heart slow down to something more regular and let his fingers relax, drawing them out of Queen Guinevere’s vice-like grip. There was something satisfying about seeing his bold, brave, quasi-perfect-in-the-eyes-of-many queen in such a state of disarray, and he couldn’t help but be the one to tease _her_ for once, knowing that she had granted him the freedom to do so.

“Forgot that you could fly to this ledge, did you?”

Once again, he saw those eyes widen in disbelief, but this time, Gawain didn’t feel any shame break his smugness. For once, he wasn’t the one who made a fool of himself.

And then, she started laughing.

It started small, a giggle rapidly transforming into a hearty laugh, but it just kept building and building. Gawain watched in fascination as Queen Guinevere, the picture of grace, doubled over, laughing so hard that tears began to form in her eyes, every other breath broken by a loud snort that seemed so _off_ and yet so _right_ at the same time. With her dust-stained, waterlogged clothes, messed up hair and overall dishevelled appearance, she looked far from what she always seemed to be, a woman who could hide any flaw behind some flashy clothes and some subterfuge…

...and yet, it was so endearing that Gawain found himself laughing as well.

Eventually, the queen managed to stifle her laughter back into a dainty giggle, and from there, she conceded, “Very well, Sir Gawain, you got me there.” She stood to her feet, flapping her wings to get rid of any remaining water, and double checked her satchel for all the emerald shards as the red warrior rose to his feet. She breathed a sigh of relief. “They’re all still there.”

Gawain looked out to the horizon, squinting in the darkness; the sun had fully set now, and they needed to return home before too many people got worried and sent out a search party. He lifted his visor to get a clearer look, hearing his companion walk to his side.

“It’s a far jump, but if you think you’re able to fly, then--”

A soft brush of lips on his cheek stunned him into silence, his mind stuttering to a halt as he tried to process what had just happened. _Did she…?_

The very next moment, his visor slammed back down over his face, and a gust of wind was his only warning as a silhouette streaked into the air, a teasing laugh floating back down. “Looks like I can fly! Well Sir Gawain, shall we be off?”

And finally, he found his tongue.

“What were you thinking?!” he roared up to the sky. “That’s as good as _**adultery**_ where I come from!”

“Calm down, sweetheart, it was just a little ‘thank you’,” she returned, utterly unconcerned, and Gawain’s face burned with the force of the sun. “Now hurry up and glide, you don’t want to be left behind, now do you?”

With a loud growl, Gawain leaped into the air, catching the wind and clearing the pool of water below them after his queen. His reckless, stubborn, impulsive queen…

_You are one of a kind. No wonder King Arthur chose you._

* * *

“There you are!”

Gawain had been right; in front of Castle Camelot, a team of Sirs Kay, Bedivere, and Lancelot were standing out front, ready to go out and search. At the sight of the duo, the aura of tension in the group disappeared.

“I will inform the others,” Bedivere announced, taking his leave, and with an unamused grunt, Kay followed after.

Queen Guinevere turned to her companion. “You’re dismissed. Until the next adventure, Sir Gawain.”

The Guardian Knight bit back a groan. “Until next time, my lady.” He nodded at his fellow knight. “Sir Lancelot.”

And with that, he started making his way to the castle, hoping to quiet his mind with a meal and a drink.

“Guin. What happened to you?”

He stopped in his tracks. _Guin?_

“Easy there, Lance. I just got a little swept up today, but it is nothing for you to trouble yourself over.”

_Lance? Wasn't only King Arthur allowed use that nickname?_

“Nothing to trouble myself over? Just look at you! Did you wrestle a beast bare-handed?”

“Why? Were you worried?”

“Of course I was! I can’t stand not knowing what’s happened to you when you don’t come back!”

“Aw, honey, that’s so sweet of you to say!”

Gawain held his breath as he listened to Lancelot fuss over the queen, and the queen soothe him in return. He had never heard Lancelot so openly concerned before, except when it came to his son. He had never heard Lancelot use nicknames, point blank. He expected this kind of banter from the queen by now, this degree of familiarity, but from Lancelot? Who had only known her a few months?

Suspicion started to grow in Gawain’s gut. Lancelot had been acting very strange for these past several months, and Gawain had instinctively picked up on it a while ago, as though Lancelot was hiding something, but he could never quite discern what it was. Now, as he eavesdropped in the courtyard, a possibility came to him.

_Sir Lancelot… could you be in love with the queen?!_

He glanced back at the two of them, hiding in the shadows, and Queen Guinevere had her hands on him, which didn’t surprise him at all, given that she had been doing the same to Gawain himself all day, but Lancelot’s own hand rested gently on hers. He didn’t look angry, or uncomfortable. He looked upset, but seemed to draw an inordinate amount of comfort from the bat’s soft touch.

_Why, Lancelot? Why would you betray our king like that? Why would you covet his beloved wife?_

A pit formed in Gawain’s stomach, and his face burned as he remembered the kiss he had received just moments ago, but he buried that thought far into the ground as he refocused on what very well could be an unspeakable act of treason by his fellow warrior-in-arms.

_Sir Lancelot… I will find out, one way or another, if my suspicions are correct._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I call this one: SA2 but They're On the Same Side.
> 
> Here we go kids, buckle up because we're entering the final arc of this story!
> 
> We have a new arrival, Charmy the Bee as Elyan! Elyan is another case of a knight (in this case, Sir Bors) being taken advantage of, resulting in a child, and once again, I pretended I did not see it and said 'adoption rights' instead. Now the Chaotix are all together and ready to rumble and it's fantastic.
> 
> The Master Emerald also makes an appearance! It was fun to tie it in to the story, because the Sonic series has so much good lore in the games and the comics, and the Black Knight universe is so open and versatile that you can fit so much in it, and I just love it so much. There's so much you can do with it!
> 
> And as usual, I have to thank you all again, because we're breaking milestones with every chapter it seems! We've now broken 100 kudos and I'm floored. Thank you all so much, from the bottom of my heart, for your support.
> 
> Next chapter: *ominous Merlina voice* Lancelot and Gawain's rift shall doom the Round Table...


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *nervous laughter*

“And there you have it!” Smithy grunted as he laid Ddraig Goch down in front of him, wiping his forehead once he had his hands free. “Resharpened, reinforced, and ready to use.”

Lancelot picked up the sword, running his hand along the flat of the blade, impressed. “I have to commend you again on making a weapon that rivals a sacred sword.”

The fox grinned, tails undulating with delight at the praise. “It was nothing, truly. I still am unable to give that one the ever-sharp edge of Arondight, but Dindrane has been looking into new materials and formulas. Enid’s been out and about, finding them, and whenever we all have a free moment, we see what we can come up with. No luck yet, but we’ll find it one day.”

“You’ve taken well to leading your apprentices,” Lancelot remarked, attaching the sword to his waist. “Learned a lesson or two from your brother?”

“You can say that, though I like to think I’m naturally good at what I do.” Smithy looked over his shoulder, as if checking that no one was listening in, then leaned over to Lancelot and whispered, “Truth be told, I’m hoping to make swords based off of the other sacred swords one day. I don’t want to get my apprentices’ hopes up in case we are unable to examine the other swords, but I was wondering if perhaps…”

“I could put a word in for you?” Lancelot guessed, and the blacksmith nodded. “After all you’ve done for me, I’d be glad to pass it on to Gawain and Percival.”

Smithy grinned. “I would ask for Caliburn as well, but I think, despite his complaints, Arthur would miss having a sword that could argue with him. All the same, I must think of something to give him for his birthday next month…”

Lancelot nodded silently in reply. Next month… Arthur would turn thirty years old. It had already been twenty years that they had known each other. “Time flies…”

“It does,” the fox agreed, walking back to his workbench and rearranging his tools according to size. “Hm… Perhaps I should make him a new gauntlet, as I did for his tenth birthday… And you, perhaps you could take him to fight a dragon?”

Underneath his visor, Lancelot fought back a smile. “Nostalgia is hardly the best birthday present, though in your case… I think he would appreciate the gesture. Perhaps also if you made one for yourself to match his.”

Smithy’s eyes widened. “Now there’s an idea! I’ve never made one for myself before, and perhaps wearing one would give me more of an idea of how to design an optimal one…” Already, the man was pulling out some charcoal and sketching out ideas to try out, before pausing and glancing sheepishly up at Lancelot. “Apologies, but when creativity strikes…”

“Then you must strike with it.” Lancelot strode towards the door, resting his hand on the handle. “In that case, until next time, Smithy, and thank you for your services. I’ll be sure to ask the others about what we talked about.”

“Much obliged,” came the response as Lancelot pushed open the door and walked back out of the forge into the castle courtyard, the cool air dipping a welcome chill through his armor as Lancelot pondered his next move. Percival was likely still sparring with Galahad; the two had gone off together after breakfast to practice their swordsmanship as well as their psychokinesis and fire manipulation, as they often did when they had the morning off. As for Gawain, Lancelot was less certain. The echidna had been acting oddly tense since he had come back from whichever new grand adventure Guinevere had dragged him off on two days ago, and so Lancelot had decided against bothering him, lest he make matters somehow worse.

But, perhaps, a custom weapon made by the royal blacksmith, Arthur’s own brother, with Gawain in mind would cheer him up?

Lancelot figured that it was worth a shot, and set out to find the Guardian Knight.

* * *

Lancelot wandered through the halls of the castle, steps echoing with every stride. Aside from the occasional knight or servant, the place was mostly empty; the king, queen, and most advisors and tacticians had scheduled an impromptu meeting to discuss some important new intelligence.

“Between you and I,” Guinevere had whispered to him earlier, “I’m just about positive it has to do with our ‘little friend’ in the Saxon Empire.”

The Ultimate Knight frowned as he thought about the Saxons and their nasty king; though he had never had the pleasure of seeing him in person on the battlefield, Lancelot didn’t doubt that, were he given the opportunity, he would strike Ælle down where he stood with no hesitation. He had almost had Arthur killed, and for that, Lancelot would never forgive him, nor would he be satisfied until he beheld his corpse in front of him 一 slain by himself or by another, he didn’t care which, so long as he could rest easy knowing that the burden of protecting their home from the Saxons laid less heavily on his king’s shoulders.

“You needn’t come to the meeting,” Arthur had insisted when Lancelot tried to join him earlier. “The room will be crowded and loud and you wouldn’t be permitted to speak. I wouldn’t subject you to that unless it was necessary. Besides,” and he had shot him a grin that had sent Lancelot’s emotions spinning out of control, “Smithy told me yesterday that he’s got something ready for you. Go pick it up, and I’ll see you once the meeting ends.”

Lancelot stopped in front of the throne room and sighed. It still bothered him that there were many things he wouldn’t be able to protect Arthur from, things that piled up and up until he swore he saw his king drag mountains behind him, all the while trying to grin and bear it. Although Guinevere was now there to lend a helping hand, Lancelot still wished that he could cut the ties that bound Arthur to all the land’s problems, freeing him so that he could run with the wind whenever he wished once more.

And Lancelot would run with him, by his side until the end, where he belonged.

The throne room, too, was empty, and Lancelot looked to the aisles, remembering all the milestones that had passed in this room. Arthur’s coronation. His knighting. His first ever duel with Gawain. Galahad receiving his first quest.

_ Where did the time go? _

He heard the sound of wood creaking, and his ears flicked back to listen, while his eyes stayed focused on the twin thrones before him.

“I thought I saw you come in here.”

_ Ah, Gawain. How convenient. _

Lancelot turned around just as the door behind Gawain clicked shut. “Hello, Sir Gawain. I was just looking for you.”

“I was looking for you as well,” came the curt reply, and Lancelot frowned. Gawain sounded like he was struggling with something unpleasant. He filed away Smithy’s request in his mind for later, deciding that his fellow knight’s plight may be more important at the moment.

“Do you need something from me?”

Gawain tensed up, and Lancelot felt a sense of foreboding dread as the other warrior tried to put the words he needed together. In the end, Gawain seemed to give up, shaking his head and delivering his question with the bluntness that he was often known for.

“Do you harbor feelings one ought not to have for their sovereign?”

It was as though the ground had been swept out from underneath Lancelot’s feet; Gawain couldn’t have caught him more off guard if he had appeared in front of him and punched him in the gut. Lancelot’s mind went hazy in panic and fear and shock.

How had he found out? How had he discovered his feelings for Arthur? Was it Geraint? Had Geraint been going around, feeding Lancelot’s secret to the other knights?

“That’s… quite the accusation, Sir Gawain,” Lancelot replied, struggling to keep his voice calm. “Did Geraint tell you that one? You know he’s fond of spreading rumors--”

“I have eyes, Sir Lancelot. I could see it, plain as day, on my own.”

Lancelot’s breathing became shallow and quick as the panic doubled down on him. If Gawain of all people could see it, then what would stop anyone else from figuring it out? What would stop word from reaching Arthur? He had Arthur’s friendship and trust, he didn’t want anything to spoil that, he didn’t want to destroy things between them, to sully his honor and send himself and Galahad into disgrace.

Before him, Gawain was losing his patience. “I’ll ask again. Are you in love with our--”

“No!” Lancelot denied in a blind panic, and Chaos, he might as well have just confessed outright, for Gawain stepped back as though stunned, before tensing up again.

“Sir Lancelot… I expected better of you.”

Lancelot wanted nothing more than to fight back, to claim that he couldn’t control his heart, that he had no intention on acting upon his feelings, that his love, no matter how strong, was ultimately harmless, but the panic wouldn’t cease and the denial only built itself up like a wall. “You’re wrong, Gawain. I don’t… I  _ never… _ ”

“Where I come from,” Gawain said, drawing out his blades, and instinctively, Lancelot gripped onto his own, “to covet someone else’s spouse is a great dishonor on both members of a married couple.” The red warrior’s voice was strained, as though he were struggling through his own battle, and as he raised one blade of Galatine to point it at Lancelot, there was a reluctance in his motion that faded as he sharpened his resolve. “Perhaps things aren’t quite the same here, but even so, such feelings are shameful, especially toward those we serve. Therefore, I cannot rest knowing I’ve done nothing to protect our king’s honor.” Gawain approached, blade still outstretched, until Galatine was but an inch away from Lancelot’s breastplate. “Sir Lancelot, in the name of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere, I challenge you to a duel!”

Lancelot’s head spun, his stress coming to a peak as he realized he had no way out of this; Gawain was a traditional man, beholden by the code of chivalry that claimed that a knight must never refuse the challenge of another, and to refuse would not only insult him, but it would utterly confirm Lancelot’s shameful secret. No matter how badly Lancelot wanted to stop everything and tear the last few minutes of his life to pieces, Gawain’s challenge had him backed into a corner, and his grip on his own weapon tightened as he finally answered.

“...I accept, Sir Gawain.”

The blade pointing at his heart wavered, just a little. “At the very least, then, I can still respect you as a knight.”

Lancelot grit his teeth and took a few steps back, raising his sword in front of him. “Likewise,” he returned, for no matter how much he wished Gawain had just stayed in his own lane and minded his own business, his actions were honorable and born from concern.

It was a small confort that if Lancelot won this duel, he might be able to convince Gawain he was misinformed, or at least, make him keep quiet.

In his mind’s eye, Arthur’s grinning face flashed before him, and Lancelot closed his eyes in sorrow.

_ Arthur… forgive me… _

* * *

Their fight was unlike any of their previous sparring matches, for now both men had something to protect; Gawain was fighting for the honor of their rulers, and Lancelot was fighting for his secret to stay hidden. Their blows were rougher, edged with a hint of bitterness and malice which only grew as their battle became more and more fierce. Neither could afford to back down, and as they struggled back and forth, all too accustomed to each other’s fighting style after years and years of sparring together, their movements and blows became increasingly erratic, and sparks began to fly as metal clashed with metal.

Lancelot could only recall a handful of times he had fought so desperately against another, and none of them were pleasant memories.

His ear twitched at the sound of voices; their clash had ended up being so loud and disruptive that it had gathered the attention of the other knights from all around the castle, and slowly but surely, they had gathered an audience as they fought.

And it was a battle Lancelot absolutely could not afford to lose.

As he parried a blow aimed for his head, one voice called out, louder than the rest. “Gawain! Stop this at once, you’ll destroy the throne room and get hurt!” It was Gaheris, stepping out of the gathered crowd, shield raised to defend himself from any accidental missed strikes.

Gawain grunted loudly as Lancelot heaved him away, regaining his footing across the room and readying to toss one of his blades in retaliation. “Stay out of this, Brother!” he called back. “I must do this, for the sake of our rulers! I cannot rest knowing that he--”

He was going to say it. Gawain was going to reveal everything, right then and there, unless Lancelot stopped him,  _ now. _

Summoning all his power, in a desperate move, Lancelot leapt into the air and thundered out,  **“CHAOS…”**

He barely registered the sight of Gaheris rushing in front of his brother, holding up his shield in an attempt to protect him. He hardly heard the terrified scream and the sound of approaching footsteps.

**“...PUNISHMENT!”**

He felt the power explode forth, and he realized his mistake too late. He wasn’t wielding Arondight, his usual sword, but Ddraig Goch, which held and amplified his power to incredible levels. His Chaos Punishment wasn’t a simple blow, but a blast that covered much more range.

Lancelot watched in horror as his blast tore Gaheris’ shield in two, sending both brothers flying back into the wall, and on the periphery, the owner of the scream, Gareth, their sister, was caught in the blast unarmed.

**“No!”**

All three siblings crashed and fell, Gaheris letting out a sharp cry as he landed on his side, and oh, _oh no, no, legs weren’t supposed to bend that way…_ The armadillo tried pushing himself up, but as soon as pressure was put on his leg, he let out a howl of pain and collapsed, unmoving. Gawain, still stunned from the impact, blinked heavily as he stared at his brother, crumpled in a disheveled heap, his shield split in half and lying a few feet away.

Lancelot felt sick to his stomach as the murmurs from the gathered knights turned to yells and gasps, and when he turned to look at Gareth, he almost fell to his knees.

The orange echidna lied unmoving on the floor, a long wound reaching from the base of her skull, all the way up to her ear, which was now missing its tip. Blood was starting to pool beneath her head. Her eyes were closed. She wasn’t moving.

All Lancelot could see was Elaine.

He took a step forward, then another, unable to stop the images of Corbenic from coming back to him. _How? How could this have happened? How could he have done this to Gareth, kind Gareth, who had never done anything to hurt him?_

Fear of a new kind pooled in his gut. Had he…

  
  


_ Had he just **killed** her? _

Lancelot started to rush towards her, until a blade from Galatine landed in the wall in front of his face, barely an inch from his nose. He looked to the side; Gawain was standing, arm still outstretched, helmet abandoned by his feet and his face twisted with rage.

“If you take  _ one more step _ towards her,” he threatened, voice rasping, “I  _ swear _ I will kill you where you stand.”

So what else could Lancelot do but stay where he was, watching uselessly as Gawain stumbled across the room to his sister, gathering her up in his arms as he checked for breathing and a pulse. Lancelot held his breath, waiting for what seemed an eternity…

...and then Gawain heaved a sigh of relief and Lancelot almost fell to the floor in similar consolation.

She wasn’t dead. Not yet.

Lancelot closed his eyes, unable to shake the memory of holding Elaine’s body, so similar to what he had just witnessed with Gawain, and felt a stab of remorse and horror as he realized just what he had done in his desperation. He had injured three knights, one perhaps to a mortal degree if she wasn’t looked at immediately.

He had betrayed the Round Table.

He had betrayed Arthur.

Lancelot tensed up so badly he forgot to breathe, and his head spun as his eyes reopened, just in time to see Merlina standing above Gareth, her fingers glowing as she ran them along the wound, looking just as terrified as he felt.

_ Why? Why did she look so scared? To be a medic wasn’t her job… _

The Royal Wizard gathered up Gareth’s body while Gawain gingerly lifted his brother, the two of them carrying their charges out of the room, but before he left, Gawain turned back to Lancelot, and his voice carried across the room, clearer than anything else and thick with grief.

“Sir Lancelot… for this slight against my family… I can never forgive you!”

And with that, he exited, without a second thought to the blade he left behind.

Lancelot struggled, feeling the weight of his actions strangle him like a noose, and little by little, the words of his fellow knights flooded into his ears.

“...is he really to blame? They did run into his attack…”

_ Yes! Yes! He didn’t mean to hurt them! He didn’t mean it-- _

“But did you see the force of that strike? That looked like a killing blow. Had it not been for Gaheris and his shield, do you think Gawain would have survived?”

_ No… No he wasn’t intending on killing Gawain… He just wanted… He just wanted him to stop… _

“Gareth is in such a state, and yet she was only on the outside of the attack! If she had been hit head on by it, then…”

_ No. No. Stop. Stop stop stop please stop no no I didn’t mean it I didn’t mean to I didn’t no please no... _

The guilt and shame built to an agonizing peak, and before he knew what he was doing, Lancelot had run out of the now-destroyed throne room and was racing through the halls of Camelot Castle, unable to face the world. He wasn’t ready to see Galahad look at him in horror. He wasn’t ready to see Guinevere look at him in shock. He wasn’t ready to see Arthur look at him in betrayal.

He tore through the halls like a storm until he got outside, past the drawbridge and through the fields outside. He couldn’t stay at Camelot, not after that. Not until he could think clearly again. But where could he go?

_ Misty Lake. Mother. _ His hands trembled as he ran at full speed.  _ She can help me calm down, and then… and then… _

And then, once he was able, he would need to face the consequences of what had transpired that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm so sorry Lance.
> 
> So yeah. In Arthurian legends, the rift between Gawain and Lancelot occurs when Lancelot accidentally kills Gawain's brothers, Gareth and Gaheris, so uh...
> 
> Next chapter: Arthur tries to deal with the aftermath of the battle, and Lancelot continues to suffer.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even have a funny quip for this one.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, sucking in a breath through his nose, trying to will his stress and anxiety away. “One more time,” he commanded, “from the beginning.”

“The story won’t change,” came the reply, and Arthur let out the breath, deflating like a balloon. “I challenged Sir Lancelot to a duel. We fought, and…”

_And now Lancelot’s missing and I have two knights in serious care._

Arthur groaned, not caring for appearances in front of Gawain as he leaned forward, resting his forehead in his hands. Yesterday’s altercation had led to wave after wave of new issues and demands and fears, to the point that Arthur felt like he was drowning. The Round Table was divided; there were those who believed that Lancelot was fully responsible and deserved punishment, and those who believed that Gawain shouldered the blame for submitting the challenge in the first place. All the knights were somewhere between those two points of view, and yet they still seemed to be taking sides, arguing and defending, as though they feared being on the wrong side of judgement once it passed.

And Arthur, as the king, was expected to pass it.

He heard a shifting in front of him and a creaking of wood. It seemed as though Gawain was on edge as well, though that was hardly surprising. Arthur had visited Gaheris and Gareth earlier that morning, once he was able. Gaheris was placed under an induced sleep as his injured leg was carefully set. According to the medics, the bones had been essentially shattered, and replacing the fragmented segments in line, where they would heal properly, would have been just about impossible without Merlina’s aid.

A small smile twitched on Arthur’s lips before the stress returned to take it away. Merlina had been so intensely present at the opportunity to help save the siblings; her utter conviction to keep them alive and well had her holed up in the infirmary, studying healing magic with every free moment she had, skipping meals and sleep as she did her absolute best to ensure their recovery.

“I won’t let anything bad happen,” she had assured him when he had visited, voice sharp with desperate determination. “I swear, with everything I have, I will not let my visions of your fate come to pass.”

Yet even with her assistance, Gareth’s fate was very, very uncertain.

She hadn’t woken up since she had been hit by Lancelot’s attack, and multiple times, a medic would check on her to find her not breathing, whereupon Merlina would cast a spell, putting air back into her lungs. Gareth was alive for now, but only time would tell if she pulled through.

Arthur had faith in her. Arthur had faith in all his knights, but all he could see was the worst case scenario. Especially after what Gawain had told him…

“...And if Gareth does die…”

Another shift, another creaking of wood, coupled with a pained inhale. “...then by the customs and laws of my village, I would be required to kill Lancelot for his crime against my family.”

And Chaos, hearing it a second time did not make it any easier to handle, for it felt as though Arthur had been stabbed through the chest as he couldn’t even bear to consider that possibility. To lose two knights in one fell swoop, and one of them being Lancelot, his dear friend for so many years…

“...And if Galahad decides that I should pay in blood, then so be it.”

...and suddenly, it became an endless trail of blood and pain and misery and why, _why had this happened?_ Why did this have to happen, when things were finally going so well?

Arthur lifted his head, finally looking at Gawain. The red knight sat before him, visor lifted and face stony, barely holding back a flood of pain and anger and fear. He was facing his own mountain of unknowns, all revolving around the fates of his siblings, and under the weight of that, he managed not to tremble. In the midst of everything, Arthur took a brief moment to admire Gawain’s mighty strength, but all too quickly the reality of the situation reared its head once again.

“You don’t…” Arthur swallowed, his mouth dry. “You don’t really want to kill Lancelot, do you?”

“I don’t,” Gawain replied shortly, but Arthur had no chance to feel relieved as he barrelled onward, “but if it comes down to it, I won’t have a choice. I’ve been a member of my village longer than I have been your knight, and though I know taking vengeance on Lancelot will violate my oath I swore to do what is best by all…” Gawain snarled, clenching his fists. “...there are some things I simply can’t forgive. Even if Gareth should prove fine, and Gaheris is able to walk and run once again… the force of that attack… what was Lancelot _thinking?!_ ” Gawain looked Arthur in the eye, burning with renewed rage. “Was he trying to **kill** me?”

Arthur wanted to know the answer to that himself, but with Lancelot still missing, he was unable to clear up that fear in his heart. He believed in Lancelot, he trusted him, and yet… even with his faith in him, he couldn’t think of any other answer. Not until he had Lancelot’s side of the story.

The king sat up straight in his chair again; the light from the midday sun filtered through the window, brightening up the room, and it was almost insulting how the world was able to keep going about its business so carefreely, while Arthur was staring at the potential ruin of everything he had worked so hard to build up and maintain.

“Answer me this,” he said, bringing Gawain’s attention back to him. “No one has been able to give me an answer… should you wish to keep it a secret, I will oblige, unless it is absolutely vital that I mustn’t.”

“I understand,” Gawain replied, and Arthur put forward the last thing that had been bothering him since he had learned of this whole wretched situation.

“Why did you challenge Sir Lancelot to a duel in the first place?”

Gawain tensed up again, and Arthur felt dread pool in his gut. “I was fighting for your honor, my lord, and that of the queen’s. Sir Lancelot… I have reason to believe that he is in love with your wife.”

_...What?_

Disbelief flooded through Arthur’s being as his mind failed to wrap around Gawain’s accusation. Lancelot? In love with Guinevere? Surely not… Surely Gawain was mistaken…

As though sensing Arthur’s doubt, Gawain pressed on. “You’ve noticed it, haven’t you? How much time they spend together? I overheard them one night, not long ago. The queen calls him Lance, and he allows it without dispute.”

Arthur frowned. It was true… It had been something that had surprised him when Guinevere had dropped the nickname so easily and so soon. Gawain wasn’t wrong about how the two were frequently together, almost joined at the hip when Lancelot wasn’t busy with his duties. Arthur had noticed that Lancelot’s time spent was shifting, from being in his company to Guinevere’s… At his wedding, Lancelot’s first dance had been with her, too…

A pit formed in Arthur’s gut as the evidence kept piling up in his mind. Was what Gawain claimed true? Was Lancelot… his greatest knight… his most trusted fighter…

“And as such, I had to challenge him for your honor.” There was an edge to Gawain’s words, as though something else lingered, heavy yet unsaid. “I know how much you adore your wife, my lord.”

Arthur blinked. _Oh._ Did Gawain also believe that he and Guinevere were in love? That would explain a few things.

“Sir Gawain, I think you misunderstand--”

“I do not,” Gawain interrupted. “You should have seen how he reacted when I asked him if he had feelings for his sovereign.” The knight frowned, lines creasing his brow. “He calls her ‘Guin’, as well.”

And just like that, the probability of Gawain’s accusation felt sky high, and Arthur was bombarded with a mess of emotions: unease, bitterness, heaviness, sadness, betrayal… It all piled up on his shoulders, adding to the weight of everything else that was crumbling in front of him.

“I see…”

_Lancelot… Where are you? I need to know your side of the story. I need to know..._

For a long while, the two sat in silence, the air around them heavy with a sense of hurt and remorse. It lingered even as Gawain stood up and requested to be dismissed. “I wish to visit my siblings,” he had said quietly, and Arthur had waved him off without a second thought.

_Why? Why did_ **_this_ ** _of all things sting so badly?_

Arthur rose to his feet, crossing his study to the window, pushing it open and feeling the cooler air from the outside ghost against his face. His eyes scanned beyond the outer wall, where the line of trees making up the forest met the plains before Camelot, hoping that at any moment, he would see a dark blur tear through its surroundings, making its way back to him.

Or maybe he just wanted to leap out the window and disappear as well. Leave behind the warring knights and the responsibility of judgement and the possibility of what could legally be recognized as an act of betrayal by one of those he cared for most. His hands gripped at the windowsill, the urge growing painfully strong, but his anxieties rooted him to the ground as much as they fueled his desire to leave everything behind. He would be leaving so much to ruin. He would be leaving the people who looked up to him for guidance and help. He would be leaving behind Guinevere to pick up the pieces, when she had done so much for him already. He would be leaving behind Merlina, who was proving now the full extent of her loyalty and resolve. He would be leaving behind Gawain and his siblings, abandoning their plight and their struggles.

The crown on his head felt like it weighed a ton. The pressure of judgement felt like it weighed ten.

A hand landed on his shoulder and jolted him out of his tumultuous thoughts. “Sorry about that,” came the voice of his wife, “but you were so far gone that you did not hear me call for you.”

Arthur sighed. “Nor did I hear you enter. I apologize, but I’ve just finished speaking with Sir Gawain.”

“Any news on Gareth?” Guinevere asked, voice laced with concern, and Arthur shook his head. “And Lancelot?”

“Still missing.” Arthur’s hands released their grip on the windowsill, falling to his sides. “I just don’t understand it, Guin. Why would he run off like that? He knows that I would listen to him, doesn’t he? So why did he run, unless he’s… unless he’s really at fault?”

Voicing his fears aloud only made their grip on his mind tighten, and Arthur’s legs started to shake as Guinevere guided him back to his chair and sat him down.

“I don’t know, sweetheart. I really don’t know.” She sounded just as lost as he. “But I do know that Lancelot wouldn’t leave you in a lurch like this. He’ll be back before you know it, I’m certain. His loyalty to you is stronger than any I’ve ever seen.”

And in the midst of all his fear, Arthur felt a small glimmer of warmth, before he remembered Gawain’s words and it was extinguished in an instant.

“Gawain says that he believes Lancelot to be in love with you.” Arthur glanced over at his wife’s face, hoping for some kind of telltale reaction, yet all he saw was surprise. “That’s why he challenged Lancelot.”

“... _Shit_.” Guinevere ran a hand through her hair, frowning as she looked out the window to the horizon. Arthur, unmoved by the queen’s cursing, held his tongue until she spoke again. “I can… see why he would think that. All the same… it’s not true.”

Relief filled Arthur to an astounding degree at the bat’s words, draining out the dread that had been pooling inside him since he had heard Gawain’s thoughts, yet he still had to make sure. “He did have many points to make a solid argument.”

“Arthur,” Guinevere snapped, looking affronted. “What do you take us for, to let such a thing into your head? There is absolutely nothing romantic going on between Lancelot and myself. He is like a brother to me, and…” Guinevere hesitated, as though picking her words carefully. “...and I can say with certainty that I’m not his type.”

Arthur’s relief only grew as he sunk into his chair. He didn’t quite understand why the thought of Lancelot desiring Guinevere had struck such a chord with him, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because it wasn’t true. No matter how much evidence there seemed to be to the contrary, his best friend and his wife were simply very close. That was all.

“Have you eaten?” Guinevere asked, and Arthur hesitated before shaking his head. “Do you want to get something to eat? Or maybe have someone bring you something?”

“No,” Arthur responded, sitting up straight again, feeling his gut clench. “I doubt I would be able to hold much down.”

Guinevere’s eyes narrowed in concern. “This weighs heavily upon you… but remember that you are not alone. I am here to help you shoulder this burden if you need me to be.”

A small smile spread across Arthur’s face. “That’s not necessary. You do plenty for me already, Guin.”

“Well, I’d hope you would do the same for me.” She gave him a light, playful swat on the shoulder as she made her way to the door. “Don’t dwell for too long, darling, and make sure you eat dinner at the very least.”

“I will,” Arthur assured her. “Going to have lunch?”

“Of course! This castle won’t run itself!” And with a laugh, she stepped out the door to leave him alone with his thoughts.

_There’s nothing between them… There’s nothing between them, Gawain can rest easy, and if his siblings turn out just fine, then we can sort everything out peacefully._

Oh, it was like a light in the darkness, dispelling so many worries and fears! Arthur felt weightless as he stood up and drifted back towards the window, finally able to enjoy the beauty of the day. Things would work out. Things would be fine, and though it would take time for Lancelot and Gawain to patch things up, it was better than…

_“...I would be required to kill Lancelot…”_

No. No, that wouldn’t happen. Merlina would make sure Gareth survived, and that Gaheris could walk and run again. Everything would be--

Movement caught his eye, and Arthur’s heart leaped into his throat as he saw the dark blur dash out from the trees, toward the castle. _Lancelot!_ Lancelot had returned, just like Guinevere had predicted! Arthur let out a laugh, relieved and delighted, and he waved his hand wildly back and forth from the window, hailing his friend. As Lancelot slowed down by the drawbridge, Arthur saw him look up towards him; the knight seemed to falter, his steps slowing even more, but once the bridge was down, he sped forward with a new resolve, and Arthur waited in eager anticipation for Lancelot to come to him.

He heard the echoes of footsteps near his study, and his heart began to beat faster in anticipation, his grin wide and refusing to fade. When the knock sounded on his door 一 _Oh Lancelot, drop the formalities, please..._ 一 Arthur wasted no time in responding, “Come inside!”

In walked in the Ultimate Knight, armor dishevelled and quills windswept, but otherwise no worse for wear. Arthur started to approach him, calling out his name in greeting, but Lancelot closed the door behind him and pushed up his visor, eyes pained and serious, stopping Arthur in his tracks.

“Arthur, please… you must revoke my knighthood right away.”

It was as though the winds had been knocked out of Arthur’s sails, and the jubilation at the thought that everything would work out vanished, only to be replaced by an all-too-familiar dread. “What? Lance, why--”

“You must!” Lancelot insisted, stepping closer, dropping down on his knee and lowering his head. “This way, you will be absolved of my indiscretions, and the Round Table will stay together. By removing me from your ranks, you remove the conflict, and I am willing to do this if it means resolving this for you. All I ask is that Galahad is spared from my dishonor. Neither he nor you should have to pay for my--”

“Lancelot, that’s enough! I’m not unknighting you!”

The thought was abhorrent, sickening Arthur to his stomach. From the day they had met, it was Lancelot who ran alongside him, facing the future together and all that came with it. It was Lancelot by his side when he had drawn the sword from the stone, cementing his destiny. To be king without Lancelot with him, without his first and closest knight… was impossible.

His friend’s head raised itself, eyes narrowed with pain and frustration. “Do you not understand what I’ve done?” Lancelot bellowed, causing Arthur’s spines to bristle. “Do you not understand the consequences to what I’ve managed to do to the Round Table? I’ve almost killed my fellow knights! I’m a… I’m a traitor!”

“No one is dead!” Arthur thundered back. Lancelot’s maddened yelling was only proving to make his anxiety push back in the worst way possible. “And this can be fixed! All we must do is get an audience with Gawain and--”

“How can you make Gawain face me after what I’ve done to him?” Lancelot demanded, and Arthur wanted to scream. “Face the facts, Arthur! I’ve lost the right to call myself a knight, and you must--”

“I mustn’t do anything, or have you forgotten who is king here?”

Lancelot’s eyes widened before his face tensed up in a snarl. There was a fire in those red eyes, one that burned so resolutely that Arthur knew that Lancelot would not back down, and so he kept piling up the pressure.

“If this can be resolved without me losing any knights, would that not be the best course of action? And with Gareth and Gaheris in recovery, do you not believe that they would forgive you with time? Even Gawain does not wish to hold ill will against you, so why would I do something so hasty and foolish as getting rid of my greatest knight at his own command?”

Something flashed in Lancelot’s eyes, and suddenly the rage shifted to pain and an indescribable look of grief, a look that tugged at Arthur’s heartstrings. He felt awful for causing such a reaction in his dear friend, but Lancelot had been beside himself, demanding to be let go…

Arthur didn’t want to let him go.

The king sighed, feeling the tension and adrenaline fade from his system, stooping down to take Lancelot’s hand and pull him to his feet. All the while, the knight refused to look at him, his eyes darting to look absolutely anywhere else in the room.

“Lancelot? Have you realized that--”

“I still say you must unknight me.”

Irritation spiked in Arthur’s chest, his hand squeezing in response. “Why? What other reason could I possibly have, when I’ve already told you how--”

“I mean it,” Lancelot insisted. “I am no longer worthy of being a knight. I have… I have committed an act of betrayal most foul.”

Fear seized Arthur’s heart. “Betrayal?”

Lancelot shut his eyes, closing them tight. “Did… Did Sir Gawain tell you his reason for challenging me?”

The question chilled Arthur to the bone. _No… No, surely not…_ “He did,” he confirmed, and Lancelot flinched, driving Arthur’s sense of terror to new heights. “He said that you were… that you _are_ in love--”

“It’s true. Gawain’s accusations are true.”

It was like a stab through the heart; white hot pain threatened to cleave his chest in two and the world around him seemed to spin as the bitter taste of pain and sadness and betrayal flooded Arthur’s mouth.

“You…” he started, and he was dismayed at how he was unable to mask the heartbreak in his voice, “you’re in love with Guinevere?”

“What?” And suddenly Lancelot was looking at him, openly confused. “Guinevere?”

That was… not what Arthur was expecting. The two looked at each other for a while, mirroring bewildered looks, as their minds struggled to make sense of their last exchange.

_Is it not Guinevere? But then... what does that mean?_

The pieces floated around him. From Gawain 一 _You should have seen how he reacted when I asked him if he had feelings for his sovereign._ 一 to Guinevere 一 _I can say with certainty that I’m not his type._ 一 all the way to Lancelot’s nonplussed reaction 一 _Guinevere?_

Then it all clicked into place, and the realization struck Arthur like a bolt of lightning as he raised his free hand to point at himself in shock.

_Is it me? Lancelot, am I the one you…?_

Ruby red eyes widened in horror as Lancelot seemed to come to the same conclusion as Arthur had, filling the blanks where communication had failed them all. He yanked his hand from Arthur’s grasp and fled toward the door, but Arthur, faster than the wind, caught up to him and threw his arms around Lancelot’s waist right as his hand gripped at the door handle, holding him in place.

Both Arthur’s heart and mind were in turmoil, swimming with thoughts and feelings and realizations that seemed obvious in hindsight. Arthur’s heart pounded in his chest as his hold on Lancelot tightened, and in his arms, he felt his knight lean into his touch in spite of everything, causing his head to spin in giddiness.

“Is it true?” he asked softly. “Is it me?”

He felt Lancelot tense up against him, and for the longest time all was still, until his friend deflated in his grasp. "It's true," he finally said, and it felt as though an explosion resounded through Arthur's body at the confirmation, and if that wasn't enough, Lancelot continued, "Until the day I die, my heart beats only for you."

And Arthur, breathless and amazed, could only stand there as he felt warmth flood through him, igniting his heart and soul, driving him mad in the best way possible.

_Is it you, Lancelot? Has it always been you?_

And Arthur knew the answer deep inside, but it wasn’t an answer he was prepared to face, not when everything that had been a certainty was now uncertain, when he was dancing the line between triumph and ruin. All Arthur could do was hold on to Lancelot, silent and useless, and he felt his knight grow more and more tense as the silence stretched on until he reached up and slammed his visor down, trying to shake off Arthur’s arms.

But Arthur didn’t want to let go.

_By Chaos above, he didn’t want to let go._

“Stay by me,” Arthur finally said, voice weak. “Please. Don’t leave.”

Lancelot stopped struggling, and for a small, beautiful moment, Arthur dared to hope that Lancelot had understood what he meant, that he _knew_ , but when he replied, voice thick with sorrow and agony, it drove a pain too sharp to bear into Arthur’s heart. “I won’t… Do not worry about me, Your Majesty.”

_No… Lancelot please… Please, I never want to be just a king to you, please understand…_

Quick as a flash, Lancelot broke away from Arthur’s hold, and the next thing the king knew, his arm was outstretched, touching the wood of the door as it slammed shut behind his knight. Arthur could still feel his warmth lingering against his body, but with every second it faded and faded as he stared at the closed door in shock and regret.

_He had never felt so alone before in his life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Stuck in a dilemma of nature against nurture, Gawain must make a decision of his own.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: There is a very prevalent pacifistic message in this chapter, made by a victim of violence. This was a planned plot point since I wrote the outline for this story back in April. However, given the current situation with the Black Lives Matter movement, I feel as though I should state that this message is NOT what I believe in regarding this movement; I do not believe in not fighting back when people are being systematically and maliciously killed. Please take this message only in the fictional context of the story, and keep supporting the BLM movement in any way you can, by donating to bail funds or black-run businesses, by protesting, or by going to Youtube, disabling your adblocker, searching up videos that donate all ad revenue to BLM organizations and playing them without skipping ads (for example, Zoe Amira’s video). Black lives matter, and always will matter. Please do what you can to help.
> 
> Additional content warning for suicide contemplation and the thoughts leading up to it, and implied past suicide idealation.

All his life, Gawain had counted on himself to be able to handle pressure. Since he was a child, he was the strong sibling, the one who could fight through anything life threw at him and keep on ticking. Gareth, the eldest, had been the heart of their trio, Gaheris, the youngest, had been the soul, and Gawain was the spirit, the force that drove them forward.

But now the way forth was uncertain, a deep dark pit before him, taunting his reluctance to jump inside. Gawain _hated_ it. He was fearless! He never stood uncertain in the face of anything, foe or situation alike! He wasn’t someone who ever got scared! He counted on it!

But now he was _terrified_ and it was driving him over the edge. Every waking moment was a mess of nerves and tension and feeling like the walls were closing in on him, and every time he closed his eyes at night he saw his brother’s leg bent out of shape, and his sister a bloody heap on the ground, and the words _Chaos Punishment_ echoed in his ears like a sinister threat that this was not the end, that the terror would continue until the end of time.

Gawain didn’t hate Lancelot, but he despised him at the same time.

There were times when Gawain felt as though he despised himself, too.

His fellow knights were divided; some were offering their support, expressing disgust at Lancelot’s betrayal, while others chided him for starting the duel in the first place, whispering to one another when they thought he couldn’t hear. Both were awful, in very different ways.

But the worst thing, by far, was when he passed by Galahad, and the boy had looked at him with an expression so filled with raw fury that Gawain had stopped in his tracks. Sweet, pure Galahad had looked at him like he hated him, and it left such an impression on Gawain that it joined the images that tormented him as he tried in vain to fall asleep.

Maybe everyone hated him. Maybe everyone wanted him gone.

The thought permeated his head and joined the rest of the thunderstorm in his mind, and paranoia joined the stress and the fear and Gawain just wanted it to stop.

At least Lancelot had the decency to stay in hiding after coming back… He hadn’t tried to visit his siblings, and Gawain was both grateful and somewhat offended on their behalf.

Nothing felt okay. Nothing felt like it would ever be okay again. The walls in Gawain’s chambers were covered in dents when everything got to be a bit too much and he would find himself with his fist against the stone, the dull ache in his hand taunting him because nothing had changed, everything was still too much, too much, too much…

He knew that what happened next, regardless of Gareth’s fate, lied with him, and perhaps it was that which scared him the most.

* * *

“You must forgive him.”

Gawain tensed up. Every time he visited Gaheris in the infirmary, this topic would come up, and every time, it triggered his fight or flight instinct. It was very telling that, these days, usually the flight response won over. Today, however, Gawain planted his feet and forced himself to stay in his chair.

“Need I remind you what he’s done to you?”

Gaheris gestured to his leg, bandaged and splinted up to the point that it was a roll of cloth. “You don’t, I’m very aware.”

“And you know it could have been much worse, were it not for your shield.” Gawain squeezed his eyes shut. That was a thought he wanted to banish from his mind forever. “And Gareth…”

“Brother, please,” the armadillo pleaded, and Gawain clenched his fists by his sides. “I know how much this means to you, she’s my sister too, but this has to stop. You have to forgive Sir Lancelot before the Knights of the Round Table are no more.”

Gawain sucked in a breath through his nose, feeling a headache forming. “I can’t do that. By the laws of our home, it is my duty to seek balance for the attack against us, and should Gareth… should she…”

He couldn’t finish that sentence.

Gaheris gave him a moment before speaking up again. “Gawain… we aren’t in Angel Village anymore. We’ve lived in Camelot for how long? Almost fifteen years?” He shifted in his cot and winced as his leg shifted with him. “We must start thinking differently. We will not always be able to find an answer that serves us as members of our village, and us as knights. And in this case… I would choose my code of knighthood over that of my village.”

“How could you?” Gawain growled out, white hot anger mixing with frigid fear. “How could you do that to Gareth?”

“I’d do it _for_ her!” Gaheris cried. “Gareth loves her knighthood and the Round Table more than anything! If the feud continues and it is ripped apart, wouldn’t that be the opposite of what she wants? The worst way to honor her?”

“Stop talking like she’ll be dead!” Gawain snapped, leaping to his feet, the urge to run off returning full force, and Gaheris held his tongue, dropping his head.

The worst part was, Gaheris was entirely right about how much Gareth loved the Round Table, and Gawain knew it. He could remember instance after instance of her speaking fondly of her fellow knights, sharing her observations and her hopes for their kingdom with their combined might.

“...Answer me this,” Gawain spoke up again. “If… the worst was to happen… would _you_ forgive Lancelot?”

“I think…” Gaheris heaved a sigh. “Emotionally, I would not. I don’t think I could. But I would still not come for his blood in return. That would be the worst thing to do.”

Gawain closed his eyes again, feeling sick to his stomach. “You’re too pacifistic for your own good, Brother.”

Gaheris let out a weak laugh. “One of us had to be.” For a moment, all was silent, before the armadillo spoke up again. “This is a hard place to be in, but please, think about it. We’ve worked with Lancelot for years. I don’t think he’d purposefully try to hurt us.”

_“But he did.”_

“He did, that’s true, and I don’t think I’ve truly forgiven him myself for what he’s done to me and Gareth… but I _want_ to. I want to believe in him more than I want vengeance. No, I’m _choosing_ to believe in him.”

Gawain grit his teeth, feeling his dilemma pile up on his conscience until he felt as though he would break. He knew that the Round Table splitting apart was the worst thing for their sovereigns and for Avalon, especially with the threat of the Saxons still on the horizon. He knew that, as a knight, the choice was clear. But what of him as a man? Of him as a brother? What about the centuries of traditions he had been taught to hold dear and upkeep, the ones that taught him to treasure his family above all else, especially now, when nothing felt right and Gareth lay in bed, with no guarantee she would ever open her eyes again?

Gawain did not know what he _wanted_ to do, let alone what he _ought_ to do. His two codes were in conflict, and the choice remained squarely on his shoulders.

_Please, Chaos. Give me an answer._

And as though in response, he heard a stirring and a soft groan to his side.

Gawain’s head whipped up and around so fast that he felt a muscle pull in his neck, but that was the furthest thing in his mind as he saw pale orange eyelids twitch before blinking open slowly. Gareth’s bright blue eyes stared blearily at the ceiling, and the sight of them was enough to pierce through Gawain’s despair, replacing it in full with dizzying relief and overwhelming joy.

“Gareth… Gareth!”

He vaguely heard Gaheris’ voice in the background, but his focus was on his sister as he ran to her bedside, taking her hand in both of his, and her fingers flexed in his grip, and her eyes shifted over to him, her mouth parting as though she intended to say his name, and even though just moments ago his world was threatening to fall apart, in that very moment, there was no longer any conflict in Gawain’s life. His hands clasped at hers, and he had to remind himself to keep his grip light, not to cause any more damage to her, and oh Chaos, Gareth was alive, Gareth was awake, his sister was okay, she was okay she was okay she was going to be okay she woke up thank you Chaos thank you…

“Ga… wain…?”

“It’s me,” he replied, and his voice was wet and thick and when he blinked, droplets fell down onto their joined hands, and Gawain _never_ cried, **_ever_** , but there were streams dripping down his cheeks and he didn’t care because this was a miracle, this was everything he needed, everything he had hoped and prayed and wished for. “I’m here… I’m here…”

“I can’t…” She coughed, her entire body shaking at the effort, but when she spoke again, her voice was much clearer. “I can’t… hear you on that side…”

Gawain wiped at his eyes, glancing at Gareth’s head wound and missing ear-tip. _Oh… Did that mean…_

A familiar spark of rage ignited in the midst of all his relief, and he gently laid her hand back down, moving to her other side. “Is this better?” he asked, and Gareth seemed to relax.

“Yes.” She coughed again, and through the wetness in his eyes, Gawain saw Gaheris sitting up in his cot, holding one hand out toward them. His shoulders were trembling 一 perhaps he was crying as well.

_Gaheris… Gareth… Let me never take you for granted again!_

“Water,” Gareth croaked out, and Gawain ran to pour her some, helping her sit up, lifting the cup to her lips and supporting her head as she drank, and pouring her a second cup once the first was drained. With that, her breathing seemed deeper and more measured, her focus seemed clearer, and her words came out with more ease. “It seems we’ve all made it.” Her eyes closed, and despite her sickly, unkempt appearance, she had never looked so serene. “I’m glad.”

The anger flared again in Gawain’s gut, while Gaheris called over to them. “It is thanks to Merlina that we’ve recovered so well! Every day I thank her for her work and now I will have to do so twofold!”

“Merlina,” Gareth replied, reopening her eyes. “I will have to do the same. Perhaps, with her help, my ear could be fixed?”

That was the last straw for Gawain as his rage overcame his joy and burst forth.

“It shouldn’t have been damaged in the first place! Gareth, do you remember what happened to you?”

Gareth frowned, eyes narrowing. “You were fighting with Sir Lancelot… and then… there was a big attack and I ran into it.”

“You almost died,” Gawain said flatly, clenching his fists. “We thought you were going to die.”

Gareth let out a quiet “Ah,” and closed her eyes again, and Gawain was blown away by how calmly she was taking everything. Did he have to get angry for everyone? Was he the only one who understood how close they were to losing everything?

“In that case,” Gareth spoke up again, jolting him out of his thoughts, “I would like to speak with Sir Lancelot as soon as I can. I want to know his side of the story.”

“You cannot be serious! Gareth, you almost--”

“I’m aware, Gawain,” she said softly, and Gawain’s words caught in his throat. “That’s why I wish to speak to him. I wish to know why he used such an attack, and whether he intended it or not, because… it does not make sense to me that he would do such a thing purposefully. Call it intuition, but I believe he feels great remorse for what has happened, and I want to hear what he has to say about it.”

And Gawain, who stood there in stunned silence, felt like he had been slapped in the face, because he felt his instincts flare up in agreement. Logically, Lancelot’s attack made no sense. Logically, the knight must be in his own world of pain, pain of a different kind, and Gawain could feel in his gut that this was true.

He knew Lancelot, after all. He had traded blows with him for years, had pushed and been pushed to new heights by him, and Gawain knew in his heart that he wasn’t a needlessly cruel person.

Like Gaheris, he hadn’t forgiven him. He didn’t quite believe that he could.

But when Gareth looked at him, eyes clear, and Gaheris stared at him with an intense apprehension, he knew what he needed to do, no matter how wrong it felt to him personally.

* * *

Gawain’s public dismissal of his feud with Lancelot was met with mixed reactions. Though the Round Table and the king all together seemed overjoyed at the news of Gareth’s recovery and the promise of reunification on the horizon, Gawain still faced the brunt of disgrace, as he feared he would.

By forgiving Lancelot, many people considered it as a confession to having started the altercation, and now Gawain was hearing voices, both whispered and loud, berating him for causing such an issue in the first place, placing the blame with him, and suddenly Gawain was facing a whole new world of dishonor that he had never seen before. Even the smallest displeased look was enough to make him feel as though he was choking, and somehow it revived his earlier dread, because now instead of facing a world of unknown terror, he was facing a life of culpability he didn’t deserve, all because he had made his choice. He had made his choice for Gaheris and Gareth, who by all means _were_ his village here at Camelot, but while they recovered from their injuries, only he shouldered the aftermath.

It was so, so heavy, and Gawain was already so, so tired.

Walking through the halls continued to be a nightmare. Every smile sent his way felt fake, every congratulations and thanks for ending the feud felt forced, and Gawain couldn’t tell what was real anymore.

What was real? Was anything… real?

Perhaps it was this question that made him reach for Galatine late that night as he stood alone in the courtyard, lifting his trusty blade up to his neck and touching it to his skin. He felt the cold metal, sharp and unyielding, and was stricken by how solid it felt.

It could all end now, with him. Any ill will inside the Round Table would be extinguished with him, and everyone would unite without him to bring it apart. He could do it…

His arm shook at the thought and his eyes squeezed shut.

“What do you think you’re **_doing?!_** ” a voice cried out, and Gawain jumped, nicking his throat just a little, and he hissed at the small flare of pain as his blade was ripped from his hand.

_Of all people, why did it have to be her?_

Queen Guinevere stood beside him, having stolen his weapon yet again, but this time Gawain couldn’t blame her for it even if he wanted to.

“Explain yourself,” she commanded, face contorted in anger, and Gawain, bound by duty, forced himself to talk.

“I was considering… to not further stain the Round Table’s name, perhaps I should--”

“Oh, don’t give me that horseshit!” the queen spat, and Gawain felt shock and fury in equal measures flood through him. “Do you really think this is a solution? Have you forgotten entirely what you stand for as a knight? If you think you’ve stained your knighthood, then you must work to make it shine again! To do what you were about to do… that’s to dishonor yourself forever, not absolve yourself!”

Gawain couldn’t stand to hear this, he couldn’t stand it, why was she so angry, why did she think she knew him or what he was going through and why couldn’t he stop feeling ashamed?

“I hadn’t decided on anything yet,” he growled back, struggling to keep his fury in check, but the queen was merciless.

“I’d hope not! Your sister finally wakes up and you think offing yourself is an option? I can’t believe you!”

_That did it._

“Watch what you say!” Gawain roared, gripping at his second blade with a painful ferocity. “You have no idea what it’s like! You have _no idea--_ ”

“How _dare_ you?!” Queen Guinevere looked seconds away from slapping him as she screamed, “ ** _Do you honestly think you’re the only one who’s ever wanted it all to stop?!_** ”

For a long time, both glared at each other silently as emotions rose to a peak, and then, all at once, both of them deflated, neither able to quite look at each other again. Instead, they both looked up at the stars; the night was so clear, and the stars were so bold, and Gawain wanted to float up into them, looking down at the world, so far away.

Perhaps this was why the king ran so much… Outstepping his problems and his fears, even if just for a moment, not allowing anything to catch up…

He felt like a coward, and the feeling of self-loathing made him want to retch.

“Lancelot’s very grateful to you,” the queen spoke up next to him, and in the middle of all his warring emotions, only her voice was clear. “You should have seen him when he got the news. He came to me in tears, saying he deserved none of it. I told him to get over it, because forgiveness was what he was getting, so he had better start making sure he works to make sure he keeps it.” She shifted next to him as Gawain’s mind went a mile a minute. “He hopes to visit Gareth and Gaheris, to make amends, but first he wants your permission.”

Gawain’s hand kept clenching around his remaining blade so hard it trembled. “I…” He breathed in deeply, remembering what Gareth had told him. “...I allow it.”

“Good.” She sounded pleased, but Gawain only felt worse. “By the way, Arthur told me about your reason for challenging Sir Lancelot. Your concern is greatly appreciated, but you were wrong.”

For the second time that day, Gawain felt the muscles in his neck pull as his head snapped around. “But I asked him! I could… My instincts are never wrong, you’ve seen them in action, so he must be lying!”

“He’s not.” The queen spoke softly but firmly, her eyes still fixed on the stars above, hair falling loosely over her shoulders. “There was a misunderstanding, but I can confirm with certainty that neither Lancelot nor myself think of each other as anything more than a dear friend.”

_No… No, if that were true, then everything that had happened…_ “But I’m certain of it!” he insisted, desperation welling up to an unbearable degree.

“Gawain, I assure you, Lancelot’s heart lies fully with someone else.” It felt as though everything around and inside Gawain had stopped and ceased to exist. “That’s one of the reasons why he seeks my company so often. I’m the only one who knows whom.” Her head tilted towards him, and Gawain saw only the utmost seriousness in her gaze. “He trusts me, and I’d hope that you could as well.”

Ice cold horror started sweeping through Gawain anew, and his head dropped until he was looking at his feet. How… How could this be? How could any of this be?

“Sir Gawain, as I said, your concern was very touching, but please… speak with Arthur or myself first. Especially since you also seemed to be under the impression that my husband and I are romantically involved as well.”

Gawain’s eyes widened and his body jolted. “Are… Are you not?”

“We are not.” Once again, her voice was soft and firm, leaving no room for dispute despite her gentleness. “I trust your instincts a great deal, Sir Gawain, but perhaps… perhaps when it comes to the matters of the heart, they aren’t always correct.”

_Everything that’s happened… Everything I’ve done… I caused it all. **I caused this.** _

“Gawain?” Her voice was far too gentle as everything came crashing down on him, and suddenly Gawain was on his knees, his empty fist having made a crater in the ground, throbbing in pain that came nowhere close to the despair in his heart.

_I shouldn’t be a knight. I shouldn’t be a knight._

He heard shifting beside him, and through the side of his helmet he saw the queen sit next to him, dirtying her dress on the ground without a care in the world, and her words returned to him. What she had said about knighthood. What she had said about Sir Lancelot.

_Perhaps… I had better start working harder to redeem myself as well._

Gawain let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, and lifted his head. The hand holding the other blade of Galatine finally relaxed, and he passed it over to the queen, who looked at him in surprise.

“Take it,” he said. “I don’t deserve to be its wielder at this time.”

“Did you not listen to me earlier?” she demanded, and Gawain took some comfort in knowing that even she didn’t always understand what was truly meant. “How can you be a knight without your sword?”

“Not just any sword,” Gawain said, and in front of him, a path started making itself clear. “A sacred sword. I will borrow a different one from Smithy’s workshop to use until I can say I deserve to hold Galatine again. As of right now…” His hand went up to the small cut on his throat, and he struggled to keep the shame down. “...I think even you agree that I shouldn’t be trusted with such a weapon. Perhaps… perhaps with a sword I am less used to… I will realize again what it really means to be a knight, and a guardian.”

He turned his head toward the queen, who was staring at him, mouth parted in stunned silence, her hands still in her lap as her eyes dropped to the weapon and back to him.

“In the meantime, I want you to look after it.” Gawain swallowed. “As you’re so fond of telling me, it originates from your homeland.”

Her mouth twitched, as though she were about to laugh, and her hand finally raised, slipping itself under his until the sword was held between them both. “And when will you decide that you are ready to hold it again?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Gawain admitted. “Perhaps… when you say that I am?” After all that had happened that night, there were few things he was certain of, but one thing rang clear at that moment. “I trust you… and your judgement.”

An odd look passed over the bat’s features, and she appeared to mull something over as Gawain took his hand away and left the second blade of Galatine within her grasp. With a loud, frustrated sigh, the queen lay both blades beside her legs, fumbling about her person until she took out her necklace, where the shards of the emerald they had been hunting for hung. With an irritated growl, she shoved it into his chest, letting it fall into his lap. “Fine. Then you take this, and guard it with your life. I swear, if you lose a single one of them…”

And Gawain, who had just requested something very similar, bit back the urge to argue. As he took the necklace and slipped it over his head, he felt the stones resonate with him as they always did, and a modicum of peace soothed his soul.

“I won’t. I swear it.”

“Good,” the queen grumbled, but there was no venom behind it. “I… trust you, too. So, let us make that your task, then. Once you’ve completed the emerald, armed with a sword that is not yours, you may have Galatine back.”

Gawain looked over to his queen one more time, before looking up at the stars again. “Then that shall be my quest.”

A task for his sovereigns, to make up for the pain he had caused them, as well as a task for himself, tied to his roots. Queen Guinevere, whether she knew it or not, had given him a quest that suited him very well indeed.

For a moment, both of them clutched at the other’s treasured possession, staring up at the night sky. “What will you do next, without this?” Gawain asked.

Guinevere hummed. “I’ve got something more important than jewels that I’m thinking about right now.” And though Gawain wanted to ask what it was, there was something in her faraway tone of voice that told him not to pry. His attention returned to the stars again, bold and dazzling, before Guinevere spoke again. “It shall all work out. You’ll see.”

And despite everything that had happened that night, Gawain believed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merlina is the real hero in this story.
> 
> This is a chapter that I'm very nervous about posting, given some of the sensitive topics in it. If I've not written or handled them well, please let me know.
> 
> And please do your best to support the BLM movement, whether you're reading this on the day this chapter comes out and the protests are still happening, or if you're reading this further into the future and there's still change that needs to be made. Support and donate to black businesses and charities, advocate for police reform/defunding/abolition, and if you can, vote for people who will actually do something about these problems. If we all do a little, a lot can happen, and it starts with us.
> 
> Next chapter: As Gawain and Lancelot try to redeem themselves to each other and everyone else, Percival and Galahad make an important promise to each other.


	23. Chapter 23

Percival’s fork scraped against her plate, scooping up the last of her food while her companions still picked at their breakfast in silence. Lancelot, who had finally come out of hiding after his pardon, was finally reintegrating himself among the other knights, though he tended to keep his distance from most, save for herself and Galahad, the latter of which always seemed on edge nowadays, stealing looks at his father as though afraid he would disappear again. The two of them were, understandably, still shaken from last week’s events; everyone was. There was a sense of fragility between everyone, as though no one was certain who was truly on their side or not, whether anyone was in the right or in the wrong, and doubt for the future ran rampant as things didn’t fall immediately back into place.

Still, Percival wasn’t too worried. She had seen the Round Table work together as an unbreakable unit from the outside for years, and from the inside for months. She had seen them band together, under one great ideal, under a wonderful king, striving to do the best for their kingdom and its people. That kind of unity wasn’t something that she believed could shatter entirely, even if it took a long time to rebuild.

Hm. Perhaps some of Galahad’s naivete was starting to rub off on her…

She glanced over at her friend, who was chewing on his toast so many times that there had to be nothing left to chew at that rate. Lancelot was slicing at his sausage until it was a bunch of tiny pieces, but Percival had yet to see him actually eat one.

She wondered if she should say something, and if so, what it would be.

In the end, nothing came to her, and she finished her breakfast in silence. If nothing else, she knew that this was but one more rough patch, and soon enough, it would pass like all the others.

The sound of footsteps approaching caused her ears to perk up, and when she looked over her shoulder she saw Sir Gawain coming toward their table, armed with a single borrowed sword and looking very tense. Nearby, both Lancelot and Galahad paused in their half-hearted attempts at eating, quills bristling in apprehension and, in the younger’s case, rage.

Once he was within earshot, Sir Gawain cleared his throat, hand clutching at his sword, and all around her, Percival could smell fear so strongly that it made her stomach clench. Suddenly, she wished she hadn’t eaten quite so much.

“Sir Lancelot,” Sir Gawain started, and Percival could hear the effort he was putting into keeping his voice calm. “I’ve been assigned to patrol the town neighboring the castle. I was wondering if… erm…” The red knight took a deep breath. “...if you would accompany me for this task.”

Sir Lancelot’s fork fell from his hand, clattering as it hit his plate.

“I…” It was the hedgehog’s turn to take a breath, and Percival watched their exchange with guarded curiosity. “I would be honored, Sir Gawain. Thank you.”

Percival heard the elder knight’s voice break on the last word, and she fought the urge to smile. Clearly, Sir Gawain’s offer meant the world to him, and if it meant a step toward repairing the rifts between them, Percival was glad to witness it happen.

To her side, out the corner of her eye, she saw Galahad clutch his butter knife so hard his fist trembled.

“Yes, well… Finish your breakfast and I will see you soon,” Sir Gawain said, sounding confident, before adding a weaker, rather useless “...for the patrol,” as a clarification. Percival couldn’t hold back a small smile at that; Gawain was stubborn and proud, but he was trying.

“For the patrol,” Sir Lancelot returned, gratitude still softening his words. “Thank you.”

Sir Gawain lingered, as though perhaps there was more to be said, but the door to the dining hall opened, and as King Arthur and Queen Guinevere stepped inside, Sir Lancelot jumped to his feet.

“I will meet you by the drawbridge as soon as possible,” he said, voice strained. “Until then, Sir Gawain.”

And with that, the Ultimate Knight bolted away, leaving his half-eaten breakfast behind. By the door, the King and Queen watched him go with varying looks of dismay.

Percival wondered just what, exactly, was going on among all the adults.

At the very least, Sir Gawain looked equally puzzled at Sir Lancelot’s abrupt exit. He glanced at her, as though asking what she knew, but she shook her head, unable to provide any answers. His gaze shifted to the final person seated at their table, and his body stiffened. It wasn’t surprising; Galahad was glaring at Gawain as though he wished to rip his head from his shoulders, and in his grip, his powers had caused his knife to bend in the middle.

“Until next time, Sir Percival, Sir Galahad,” Sir Gawain said loudly before making a quick exit of his own.

Percival looked over to her friend, who was still glaring daggers after the Guardian Knight, and it was a look that promised untold wrath, a look so unsettling that it caused the hair around her spine to raise. As much as Percival wanted to puzzle out exactly what had happened regarding the Round Table’s split and its aftermath… Galahad was her priority.

“Galahad?” she murmured, and slowly, _slowly_ , the boy’s furious aura began to fade as he came back to her.

“He has some nerve,” he growled, holding his bent knife between both of his hands in an attempt to straighten it out, “to come speak to Father after what he put him through.”

“He’s trying to make amends,” Percival reasoned, but Galahad’s face only grew more sour. “To resent him still is--”

“I don’t care!” Galahad snapped, slamming the knife down onto the table. “You should have seen him! You should have seen how badly Father was hurting, and it’s all because of him! He’s stained my father’s honor, and now he thinks he can just… just come up here and make everything okay again? It’s not okay! It’s not okay at all!” His face twisted up, and despite his best efforts, Percival saw the smallest drops of water form at the corner of his eyes. “I… I _hate_ him.”

Percival had seen many knights get angry, even downright furious. She was no stranger to impassioned anger. But to see it on Galahad, who brightened everyone’s day with his warm smile and sweet nature…

...Chaos, it was  _ heartbreaking. _

Percival put a hand on Galahad’s shoulder, feeling him shake, and with the softest voice she could muster, tried to bring him out of that state. “Sir Gawain made a mistake, making that feud public as he did,” she reasoned aloud, although in her heart, she thought that Gawain had had every reason to be that angry at Lancelot, “but he was doing it out of anger and concern for his family. You would also go to great lengths for your family, would you not?”

Galahad flinched, and Percival couldn’t help but feel like she had committed an irreversible sin. “I would,” he mumbled, raising one hand to his eyes as he wiped them dry. “Father and Grandmother are all I have…”

“So could you find it in you to understand Gawain’s reasons, and be happy that he chose to drop his vow for vengeance? He’s also faced a great dishonor, all to make things right by your father again.”

For a very long time, Galahad was silent and still, and Percival wondered if he had heard her, but finally, his shoulders started to relax, and his face looked more forlorn than angry.

He didn’t truly hate Gawain, and Percival knew it.

“Why… Why can’t people simply be good or bad?” Galahad asked, and Percival dropped her gaze. “Why couldn’t he simply be an evil man… so I could hate him without feeling so awful about it…”

_ Oh Galahad… still so naive… _

“I don’t think anyone will ever be purely good, nor purely bad,” Percival replied, taking her hand back from his shoulder. “But to realize that there is both, in different combinations, in all people… I believe that is part of growing up.”

Galahad nodded, eyes dull, and it was as though a raincloud was looming over them, subduing them in sadness until Percival couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Galahad,” she prompted, gaining his attention immediately, “what say you that we have a patrol of our own, in the plains surrounding the castle? It’s been a while since we’ve ventured so far.”

_ I want to see you feel better again. _

“I suppose,” he responded with a sigh, but he got to his feet immediately and she followed suit. Together, they left the dining hall and the remains of their breakfast behind.

* * *

They kept their eyes peeled as they rushed through town, just in case, but they resolved to leave it be for the most part; that would be Sirs Lancelot and Gawain’s responsibility, after all, and they weren’t about to show them up. As Percival dashed at full speed across the grassy plains, she kept an eye on Galahad as he flew through the air beside her. As the winds danced through their hair and the sun shone down on them, glinting off of their armor, Percival saw the heaviness that had plagued Galahad begin to fade, and as his eyes became clearer and his demeanor more cheerful, she felt lighter herself, and together they combed the plains of Avalon, remembering just how big and open the world could be. There was always more than just the problems before them, and as they passed all kinds of plants and animals and streams and villages, the beauty of it all raised their spirits.

Galahad started to fly higher in the sky, a silver beacon against the endless blue, scanning the horizon, and Percival kept one ear focused on her companion, in case he saw something she couldn’t. It certainly helped that he could fly; Percival didn’t do well with heights. It was nice that she could count on him to take charge of the skies while she kept to the ground.

“Percival!” he called out, sounding alarmed. “To the west! It looks like an attack on that village! Maybe… seven assailants!”

She gripped Laevatein, changing her course and focusing her mind to the possibility of battle. She didn’t look up; she knew he would follow her into the fray.

It was Galahad, after all. They were a team, through thick and thin.

* * *

It had been a while since the two of them had fought real opponents unsupervised, but Percival had faith in them both. Intruding on the raid had predictably led to battle, and as Percival jabbed and parried, she remembered that, though the two of them were young, they were regarded as some of the most powerful knights at the Round Table. Her youth was not a hindrance, nor was it a weakness. It was a warning that she would only get more powerful.

Percival tucked her arms in close, and twirled about in a fiery vortex, sweeping through the streets and bulldozing down assailants, and all around her, she saw shields of blue aura rise to protect buildings and citizens from her flames.

It struck her suddenly how much she had based her fighting style as a knight around the trust that Galahad was fighting beside her.

She wondered if, perhaps, that wasn’t such a good thing.

Percival had confidence in her fighting skills. She had trained long before she had become a knight, and she had gone on quests alone, and she knew how to control herself and her powers. Yet with Galahad… there was something much more free and untamed in her battle style. She burned, while he contained, and together, they protected everyone.

As the injured raiders surrendered to the town, Percival and Galahad sped off; if there was an attack there, then a raider camp might be nearby. Yet instead of flying into the air to scout it out, Galahad zoomed over to her, hand outstretched.

“Percival! Your arm is bleeding!”

She slowed down, checking both arms, and sure enough, through one of the gaps in her armor, there was a cut that was trickling blood.

“It’s only a scratch,” she dismissed, but Galahad grabbed at her wrist and led her to a rock, instructing her to sit down, and despite Percival’s reminder that threats could be nearby, Galahad was insistent.

“I’ve already seen what lies around this town. If there is a camp, it is a long way away, and I cannot let you run around with your arm in that state!”

And though Percival was certain that the cut wasn’t as bad as Galahad was making it out to be, she figured it would be prudent to let him fuss over it before setting out again. It would keep arguing to a minimum, at the very least, and it wouldn't do to have the cut get infected. The medics and Merlina had already been working so hard without something like that to add to their plate.

As Galahad cleaned the cut with a small strip of cloth and some water from their supply pack, he spoke up. “You really are incredible, Percival, to fight through a wound and then be so tough to not notice it.”

“It’s only adrenaline, Galahad,” she replied, amused, but his praise warmed her like nothing else.

“Even so, I admire you greatly.” His hands were gentle as he pressed the bandage to her arm, wrapping it carefully. “You’re so strong, and fast, and fearless, and wise, and you bear a sacred sword… It’s an honor to fight by you, to be your friend.” His hands paused, and suddenly his eyes were looking into her own, warm and golden like sunlight off of water. “I don’t think I’d be nearly so capable without your guidance.”

Percival blinked in surprise. “How could you say that? You’re plenty capable, with or without me. You’re the youngest knight in Round Table history, and you’ve more than proven yourself before I came along.”

That made him smile, sheepish but delighted, and Percival felt his happiness transfer to herself, light as a feather and yet stronger than steel.

“It’s odd,” Galahad remarked as his focus went back to bandaging up her cut. “Whenever Father speaks of being a knight, of how he’s honored and privileged to be serving a king such as His Majesty King Arthur, how he’s happy to die fighting for him, I understand what he means, but not entirely. By which I mean, there’s something in his words, something in them that leads me to never doubt his devotion. I am also happy to fight for our king, for he is truly a great man, but when I think of the devotion my father demonstrates… I don’t feel it nearly as strongly. Not for him. Instead… I feel that for Father… and for you. You, Percival, are someone I would follow into the flames, and fight for until the end.”

Burning heat rose to Percival’s face at that, because to equate her to the king… to compare his loyalty as a knight to his loyalty to her… Good lord, did Galahad know what he was implying? Did he _realize_ what he was _saying?_

Yet he continued to dress her wound, without a shred of embarrassment or regret for having spoken, not demanding an answer, simply content with having put forth what he thought and what he felt.

They were young. They were so, so young, and perhaps Galahad hadn’t quite put a name to the feelings he had just admitted to, and perhaps Percival was reading too far into things. She wasn’t much older than him, anyhow. Maybe, with time, Galahad would find different words to express his feelings, and maybe, he would put them forward once more.

And Percival thought to earlier, when they were fighting, when she had realized just how deeply she counted on him to be beside her, and how his presence brightened the lives of all he knew, including hers, undoubtedly including hers, and…

_ Galahad… perhaps with time… I will return your feelings in full. But as for today… _

“Let’s make a promise.”

He looked up at her in curiosity. “A promise?”

She nodded. “Together, let us promise to protect our kingdom no matter the cost.”

His smile widened, and Percival swore that he was glowing. “Yes, of course! Together, we shall do amazing things for Avalon! No matter what it takes… Percival, I promise to protect you with my life if need be!”

“And I will do the same for you,” she replied, because it was true, she would throw herself in harm’s way for her friend without a second thought. He was important, so important, not just to her, but to the Round Table, and to their sovereigns, and to their kingdom.

At her response, he beamed, eyes closed and teeth peeking out, warmer than any flame she could conjure and as bright as the sun itself…

They were both still young, but she wanted to cherish that smile forever.

“We’ll protect Avalon, no matter what.”

* * *

“Lamorak, stop!”

“I just want to talk to him,” the hawk said again, voice eerily calm despite his ruffled feathers, and Percival fought the urge to either slap her own forehead, or his.

“There’s nothing to talk about!” she insisted, but her brother kept marching along the castle halls, towards the room that Galahad used as his own. “We just made a promise--”

“To fight together forever, I know. I heard.” Percival bit back a growl. How Lamorak had found out about her exchange with Galahad, she didn’t know, though the contents of the exchange seemed to have been simplified before they got to him. “As far as I’m concerned, that’s a proposal.”

“It is not!” she insisted, exasperated and mortified, resisting the urge to draw her sword and fight him back.

“And, as your big brother,” Lamorak barrelled on, paying her no mind, “it’s my duty to make sure he’s good enough for you, and even if he is, which he is not, to make sure he knows to stay on guard, because if anything happens to you--”

“You are blowing this entirely out of proportion! I swear, you’re doing this just to irritate me, and I don’t appreciate it!”

“That’s also the older brother’s job,” he returned with a smirk, and Percival did draw out her sword at that, only for it to be knocked aside by one of Lamorak’s blades in an instant. “Need to be faster than that, little sister.”

“You’re impossible,” Percival groaned, her humiliation growing as Galahad’s room drew near and Lamorak, the master of subtlety that he was, threw open the door with no hesitation.

Stunned golden eyes turned toward them as Lamorak stepped inside. “Galahad, explain your intentions toward my sister.”

“My intentions?” Galahad echoed, and as Percival tried to come forth and dismiss everything, Lamorak raised an arm to stop her.

“Let him speak, dear sister. I want to hear what he has to say.”

“I don’t quite understand,” Galahad piped up, and Lamorak sneered, but before he could say anything, Galahad continued, “but if you must know, my intention is to fight by Percival’s side for as long as I am able. She is one of the greatest fighters I’ve ever beheld, and I admire her more than anyone else. To be her friend is a privilege I treasure, and to spar with her, training myself with her greatness, is a gift. I intend to do my best, to make sure that I can give to her even half of what she gives to me, and I will not rest until I have done so.” The Silver Knight tilted his head, mild confusion evident as his brow furrowed. “Is… that all you wish to know, Sir Lamorak?”

It was one thing to hear Galahad’s admiration alone, but to hear it a second time, with her brother present? Percival was about ready to die of embarrassment. She fought the urge to hide her face as Lamorak stood there, silently appraising her best friend, before letting out a “Hmph!” and turning away. He didn’t look entirely satisfied, but as he passed her by, he whispered a simple, “He’ll do... for now.”

It was a miracle and a half that Percival didn’t set him on fire as he left.

“What was that all about?” Galahad asked, still not seeming to have grasped the situation, and Percival was glad to take that silver lining to this whole mess, no matter how small it was.

“Do not worry about it,” she replied, struggling to keep her voice calm. “It’s… just my brother being himself.”

“I suppose?” Galahad still seemed beyond confused, but he brightened up quickly enough. “Percival, before you go, I wanted to thank you for looking out for me today. I know I haven’t been… It has been tough, since the incident between Father and Sir Gawain, and I know I wasn’t in my right mind this morning. It means a lot that you helped calm me down and remember what’s important. Thank you for that. Thank you… for everything.”

And Percival, still plenty embarrassed from before, had to squeeze her eyes shut as heat flooded her cheeks.

_ Galahad… This morning you wondered why people couldn’t be just good or bad, but if there ever was someone who was too good for this world, it would be you. _

“Think nothing of it, my friend. What kind of person would I be to leave you in such a state?”

“All the same, I’m very grateful to you. I hope to repay the favor one day.”

They were young, still young and figuring out what everything meant, but Galahad’s pure honesty, innocent naivete, and sweet optimism had touched Percival from the very beginning, and now, Percival was certain of one thing.

_ Galahad… youngest of all the knights, you are the future of Avalon... _

“Do not fret. I’m sure you shall one day soon, before you know it.”

_...and I want to see that future. You’ll do amazing things, and I hope… _

“Then I shall do my best! Just let me know if you need my assistance, Percival, and I will do all I can to help!”

_...I hope that I will be by your side when you do. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *thinks about how neither Percival nor Galahad from Arthurian legends survive the quest for the Holy Grail and cries for 1000 years*
> 
> I don't think Blaze and Jet have ever interacted in any game (comics might be a different story?) so just dipping into that Percival and Lamorak dynamic was an interesting experience. They do fit the 'hopelessly irritating older brother and struggling to stay dignified little sister' trope very well.
> 
> Galahad is a treasure and will always be a treasure. Gawain is doing his best and I'm proud of him.
> 
> Next chapter: Guinevere and Arthur have a very important talk about the future of Avalon, Camelot, and themselves.


	24. Chapter 24

“I figured I would find you here.”

Guinevere watched Lancelot’s ears jerk in her direction as he closed the door to the infirmary. The knight squared his shoulders, carefully maintaining neutral body language, so 一  _ obviously _ 一 he was feeling a great deal and was trying to hold it all back. 

_ Typical Lancelot… _

“You’ve been visiting Gaheris and Gareth every day,” she remarked, falling into step beside him as they strolled down the hall. “That’s very noble of you.”

“I owe them more than I could possibly give back,” he responded, voice steady but soft. “Whatever little I can do for them, I vow to do for as long as I must.”

Guinevere hummed, wrapping her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “It’s not a debt you know how to repay, I’d imagine.”

“I don’t believe I shall ever repay it.” Lancelot swallowed, shaking, as though willing down a tidal wave within himself. “It’s because of my thoughtlessness that Sir Gareth will never hear like she used to, or that Sir Gaheris will never reach the level of mobility he had before. And Lady Merlina… she’s missed so many nights of sleep and so many meals over this… The least I can do is help look after them so she can get some rest.”

“I’m sure they all appreciate it,” Guinevere murmured, heart aching in sympathy, and Lancelot bowed his head, shaking it side to side.

“Even Sir Gawain offered me kindness before I could do the same… I’ve hurt some very, truly remarkable people, and I will never be able to make up for what I’ve done. Even the Round Table hasn’t found its way back together… and sometimes it strikes me, just how absolutely lucky we all were, for so many things could have fallen apart, all because…”

Lancelot’s voice trailed off, but Guinevere could sense the shame rolling off of him in waves, suffocating him with no respite. He was focusing inward again, drowning himself in his own fear and pain, and if she didn’t pull him back out…

Guinevere stopped walking and placed her hands firmly on top of Lancelot’s shoulders, and the knight’s head lifted. Satisfied that she had his attention, she spoke simply and clearly, relying on the power of her words rather than how they were said. “You have been doing your very best, and even if your best should not be enough, what matters is that you put forth the effort. That will be what people remember you for… especially as the Ultimate Knight of the Round Table. The code you follow, to do what is best for all, does not mean to make the right decision every time. We are not gods… we can never do something so incredible. What we _can_ do, is what you are doing. We can try, and when we fail, we can try harder, no matter the outcome.”

Something seemed to stir within her friend as her words reached him, and he took a few deep breaths before speaking in turn. “I am… Sir Lancelot du Lac… the Ultimate Knight of the Round Table… and I will, until my dying breath, fight for my kingdom, and my fellow knights, with everything I have. And should I one day make the worst of mistakes… if I should make the kingdom turn against me… I will fight like I always have!”

His voice broke at the last words, and Guinevere felt his shoulders shake under her hands, and as she spoke in return, she couldn’t hide the emotion from her voice. “And even if you believe that the whole world will be against you... know that I'll always remain by your side. Remember that.”

“...I shall.” The words, quiet and broken, cemented the unbreakable bond between them, and one hand lifted, covering one of hers where it rested on his shoulder. “Thank you…”

For a while, they stood still, fighting down the array of complex and conflicting emotions that threatened to make its way to the surface, and only when their hands dropped at the same time did Guinevere find her tongue again.

“Are you okay?”

And it was a silly question, because she knew the answer, but she couldn’t say nothing at all.

“...I’ll be fine, with time. Not great, but fine.”

They started walking again, with no destination in mind, but with the understanding that neither were quite ready to be alone again after that.

“What will you do next?” she asked him, keeping her gaze forward.

“I believe I will return the kindness Sir Gawain showed me, and invite him to my evening patrol,” he said in return. “Before that… I shall fulfil my old promise to Smithy. I said I would ask Sirs Gawain and Percival if they would allow him to examine their sacred swords… though from what I understand, you are the current holder of Galatine.”

“You heard correctly, though I cannot say at all that I am their wielder.” The twin blades were hidden away in her room, locked in a chest, after a fun-seeking test run with them proved less than successful. “I could drop them off at the forge, if you would like?”

“After I get Sir Gawain’s approval,” Lancelot said with a nod. “Though his reason to put down his weapon of choice still escapes me.”

Guinevere giggled. “I’m afraid it will continue to do so. It is not my reason to tell.” And it was true; no matter how close the bond between Lancelot and herself was, the intense moment with Gawain that she had taken a part in was something that remained solely between them. “You’ll find that I do not throw about the secrets of others.”

“I suppose not…”

Guinevere frowned at Lancelot’s troubled tone. “Is something the matter?” The knight stopped in his tracks, and Guinevere turned to face him. “Lancelot?”

“Has he… told you?”

“Who?” Guinevere’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Sir Gawain?”

“No. Arthur. Has he…” Lancelot heaved a breath, and the bat was struck by how pained the sound was. “...has he told you about me?”

Nervousness started to build in Guinevere’s gut, and her fingers raised instinctively to play with her hair. “No, nothing. Does this have to do with how you’re always running off when he’s around?”

Lancelot made a noise akin to getting punched, and Guinevere regretted asking. “Yes… My secret… is no longer secret to him. He knows, Guin.”

_ Oh. But wait… isn’t that a good thing? Because surely now-- _

“He knows, and now… I have my answer. My feelings aren’t returned.”

…

_ What. _

**_WHAT._ **

Guinevere stared at Lancelot, absolutely speechless at the mind-numbing nonsensicality of the words she had just heard, and yet, other things regarding her husband made sense now. How he always seemed perturbed by something, how unsettled he seemed, how she would catch him looking wistfully into the distance, a soft and gentle smile on his face, before something seemed to occur to him and everything about him seemed to deflate.

Arthur knew. And if Arthur knew about Lancelot, but didn’t know about himself, then all this was…

**_Idiots!_ ** _ Dear sweet Gaia, why are the men in my life such massive  _ **_idiots?!_ **

Guinevere bit back the urge to scream some sense into Lancelot as he finished his thought, mind already racing forward to her next move. “Yet, though he knows… please keep my secret from the others. I… I am not ready for that degree of shame.”

She sighed heavily, pushing back at her annoyance and irritation at this new miscommunication. “Of course, darling. I won’t breathe a word.”

But she most certainly had a few choice words for her husband. As Lancelot bid her farewell, Guinevere started rehearsing arguments, making strings of logic, compiling evidence, and planning ways to present it all in her head as she marched through the halls. She was going to get these hopeless idiots their happy ending, even if she had to scream a few ears off in the process.

* * *

That evening, Guinevere knocked on the door to Arthur’s chambers, calling out a quick, “I’m coming in!” as a warning before pushing the door open. From his chair by the window, her husband looked up in surprise, his elbows resting on his knees and hands by his face, as though he had been holding his head. Guinevere frowned.

This ended tonight.

“We need to talk.”

Arthur gave her a strange look before sighing and sitting up straight. “You’re right. We do.”

He gestured to a second chair, and Guinevere crossed the room, sitting daintily down, crossing one leg over the other and looking at Arthur expectantly. She would give him one chance to say it himself, but she was determined to not let this drop until everyone was on the same page.

Arthur pursed his lips, glancing out the window, and though the stalling irritated her, Guinevere let it be for the moment, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. Across the way, Arthur’s fingers tapped nervously against the arm of his chair.

“There’s something you should know,” he finally started, and Guinevere bit back the _“I’ve known for a while”_ that jumped forth in her mind. “It’s about the whole…  _ situation _ with Lancelot and Gawain.”

Guinevere frowned, pausing as her finger tangled in her hair. That wasn’t quite what she was expecting. “Oh?”

“The thing is… it was foretold a while ago, by Lady Merlina.”

Annoyance flared in the queen’s chest, and she tugged her finger loose, prepared to bring the conversation back to where she wanted it to go, but Arthur pressed on, still looking out the window, unaware of her reactions.

“She saw a future of ruin, and one of the harbingers that she told me about was a rift between Lancelot and Gawain splitting the Round Table and driving everyone apart. Though we’ve managed to avoid the worst, suffice to say, the event still happened.”

“And that’s why she was so resolute when it came to saving Gareth’s life,” Guinevere finished, putting the pieces together in her head. “So what’s wrong? Are you still worried about this ruined future, despite having overcome the beginning of the end?”

“I suppose I am,” Arthur admitted, finally looking back at her, and there was a nervous hesitancy about him that, despite her own goals, made her decide to finish hearing him out. “Because there was a second part to her vision… a part that may concern you.”

The bat frowned, feeling suddenly more involved. “How so?”

“The second thing that Merlina predicted…” Arthur swallowed, spines bristling, and it struck Guinevere just how nervous he seemed. “...is that I would be killed. Struck down by Mordred.” He looked her right in the eyes. “...My son.”

Guinevere’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open, shock thundering through her at the implication. The memory of her first day at Camelot, at meeting Merlina and how frightened the human woman had looked when she saw her and Arthur laughing together, was suddenly painted in a very different light.

Good Gaia, did Merlina really believe that she would bear the son of Arthur, bringing doom to the kingdom?

“...Well. It’s certainly a good thing that I’m not planning on having children, then.”

Arthur let out a small laugh at that, a bit of life returning to his eyes, right before he went back to looking troubled. “I had a conversation with Caliburn the other day,” he said, shifting in his seat, “about heirs and what should happen once I die. He says that, though it is possible for him to be returned to his stone to wait for the next worthy ruler once I pass on, it’s not the greatest idea, since it leaves Avalon without a sovereign until such a person shows up, which could take anywhere from minutes to decades… and especially since, as of right now, I’m planning on using Caliburn as my sword until the end of my days.”

“So you’ve been thinking about what’s best for the future, and whether that means having a child or not,” Guinevere summarized, pressing her lips together. “I hope I don’t have to remind you that--”

“You don’t,” Arthur reassured her. “I wouldn’t do that to you when you’ve told me you won’t. Besides… I’m not sure if I could…” An odd look passed over Arthur’s features, but before Guinevere could press him for more information, he continued. “Anyhow, I’m wondering if I should consider adopting sometime in the future. Of course, that would be equally your decision.”

“I wouldn’t mind it,” she answered slowly, “though I cannot say I’m feeling eager to raise a child anytime soon.”

“Good,” Arthur replied with a nod. “Me neither. I know that we don’t need to make a decision right away, but it is something I wanted you to consider… and, in the case of the vision, to know.”

“I assume, then, that you would want to adopt a daughter?” Guinevere asked, and a faraway smile played on her husband’s lips.

“As always, you’re right. And… even if, one day, she comes up to us, and says that she is, in fact, a he, and he wants to be named Mordred…” Arthur frowned, the softness fading from his demeanor. “...I suppose we’ll take it as it comes, if and when it happens. Perhaps some things are inevitable…”

“...But how we handle them will really determine what the future holds,” Guinevere finished, and Arthur truly smiled at that, seeming loads lighter than when she had walked in.

Good. Now she could talk about what she really came here for.

“And Guin? There’s… one other thing I should tell you.”

_ I’m going to be here all night… _

“Out with it, then.”

And Arthur’s quills started to spike up again, though this time, he looked more embarrassed than nervous. His hands clasped together, fingers interlocking before loosening and then repeating the process over and over as he struggled to bring his words forward.

As impatient as she was feeling, Guinevere couldn’t help but find it endearing.

“I’m…” Arthur looked down at his hands, unable to meet her eyes. “...I’m in… erm…” And he mumbled something so quietly that, if Guinevere didn’t have advanced hearing, she would have missed it entirely.

But she didn’t, and she heard it.

“...I’m in love.”

Guinevere fell back into her chair, laughing so hard she snorted, basking in the wonderful glowing warmth of delighted relief. “FINALLY!” she exclaimed, earning a stunned look from her husband. “By the gods above, do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to figure that one out?”

“And… you’re okay with it?” Arthur asked, eyes wide, prompting a roll of the eyes from his wife.

“So long as it’s who I think it is, I absolutely am.” She leaned forward in her chair, grinning from ear to ear. “Just to make entirely sure we’re not jumping right into a new miscommunication… we’re talking about Lancelot, aren’t we?”

The way Arthur’s face reddened was absolutely  _ priceless. _

“Was it really that obvious?” he asked, a sheepish chuckle escaping him as he ran a hand over his spines, smoothing them down.

“Honey, please. I could tell from the day you took me on a tour of the castle and you couldn’t shut up about him.” Guinevere laughed again at Arthur’s mortified look, trying desperately to stifle her giggles behind her hands as he dropped his face into his own. Once she had calmed down enough, she remarked, “It’s just as well. That man has adored you since long before I met him.”

“He has, hasn’t he…” Arthur’s tone sounded melancholy, and it sobered up her mood. “I’ve kept him waiting much too long… I’ve hurt him terribly.”

“Then make it right,” Guinevere ordered, and Arthur picked up his head. “If you wanted my blessing, you’ve got it.”

“Thank you,” Arthur replied quietly with a soft smile. “May I also count on you to stand by us, if we receive any wrath from our advisors?”

“Of course! What do you take me for? I’ll fight for the two of you, even if I must do so until the end of time.”

Arthur leaned back in his seat, now looking entirely unburdened, happiness freely permeating his being. “You’re the best wife I could have ever hoped for.”

Guinevere winked at him. “And don’t you forget it.”

“I won’t. After all…” Now it was Arthur’s turn to flash her a wide grin. “...I might be doing the same for you in the future.”

Guinevere flushed, hating that her mind instantly travelled at the prompt, but she kept her composure. “Slow down there, sweetheart, we’re still talking about you right now. When are you going to tell him?”

“I…” Just like that, Arthur was sheepish again. “I hadn’t thought that far. I’ve made him wait a long time, but… perhaps on my birthday next week?”

Guinevere’s eyes softened. “The day you two met?”

“You knew that?”

“Arthur, darling, do I _really_ have to tell you how often Lancelot speaks of you?”

Arthur went even redder than before, somehow.

“So,” she continued, “on your birthday, do something sweet for him.”

“I was thinking of travelling to Misty Lake,” Arthur admitted. “Perhaps I could bring him with me. I wanted to talk to Nimue about some things, but… perhaps I could add yet another thing to the mix.”

“Sounds like a good start,” she agreed. “But Arthur… I have to warn you, Lancelot fully believes that you do not return his feelings. I doubt a grand romantic gesture will seem genuine to him. You might have to tell him directly, no subtleties, no extras. Just your words.”

Though Arthur looked pained, he nodded, and together, they discussed their plan late into the night, until yawns broke their conversation and Guinevere started to nod off in her chair. Arthur helped her up, and together, they stumbled over to the bed.

As Guinevere flopped down on one side, she felt the bed dip on the other side as Arthur lied beside her, keeping a distance between them. “Congratulations, my dear,” she murmured, closing her eyes. “You’ve finally gotten me to sleep in your bed.”

A soft laugh sounded from the other side. “Don’t go spreading that news around. Soon enough, with any luck, I’ll be spoken for.”

And though Guinevere had more quips in her, sleep pulled her under before she could let any of them out. All the same, she couldn’t bring herself to truly mind.

The future, though uncertain in many areas and downright terrifying in others, looked bright, like a great, glittering gem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guinevere: Ah yes. Me. My husband. And my husband's 3 foot tall Ultimate Knight.
> 
> Sonic 06 has some A+ Team Dark moments and I couldn't resist adding that one bit to this chapter.
> 
> We're almost at the end, everyone! Thank you all so much for your support, in all of its forms. If everything goes according to plan, the final chapter should be released on the 23rd... just in time for Sonic/Arthur's birthday. Until then!
> 
> Final chapter: Arthur takes Lancelot back to where it all began.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday Sonic! Happy birthday King Arthur!

The sun shone bright in the clear blue sky on Arthur’s birthday, its rays reaching down and bathing over his royal blue spines, illuminating them with flashes of gold. A soft breeze blew past, delicately lifting his quills higher into the air as they bounced in time with his footfalls.

Lancelot knew he was staring.

Inwardly sighing, he forced himself to look away from his king travelling in front of him, reminding himself of his duty to make sure Arthur remained unharmed in any situation, under any circumstance, even though they had made this trek from Camelot Castle to Misty Lake many times over the course of several years. Ordinarily, though, they would run to their destination at breakneck speeds, reaching their goal faster than most could even reach the edge of the forest.

Today, however, they were walking to their destination, as Arthur carried a large bouquet of white roses in his grasp, and didn’t wish for them to become damaged en route. Lancelot didn’t ask about the flowers; the instant Arthur had cornered him and asked him to come along to Misty Lake, it was evident they were for his mother.

The white rose… Galahad’s growing interest in botany had left him with some deeper knowledge of plants and their meanings. This flower represented many things, among them innocence, purity, youth and remembrance. Fitting for having known each other for so many years…

...But bringing them along meant to stroll leisurely to his mother’s domain, and it was taking its toll on him. Things still weren’t fixed between him and Arthur, by any means. Lancelot had still been doing his best to avoid him, not ready to go back to pretending everything was okay and like he hadn’t let his personal feelings get the best of him and opened up his heart, wounded and damaged but still beating, only to be met with silence.

Still, he couldn’t avoid Arthur forever, nor could he refuse a chance to visit his mother. Or refuse Arthur on his birthday.

Or refuse him in general…

_I must be some kind of masochist,_ he thought, resisting the urge to close his eyes or bolt off into the distance as their journey dragged on, with scarcely a word spoken between the two of them. Lancelot was shifting constantly between the overwhelming urge to say something, and the equally powerful urge to never speak again. In front of him, crimson cape billowing gently in the breeze, Arthur strode wordlessly, always facing forward. Lancelot couldn’t read his face, nor his body language 一 he was so _expressive_ with his hands… when they weren’t both grasping at a bouquet, that is 一 and had no idea what was going on through the other’s head.

Being around him again was delightful and agonizing and he had no idea how he was going to manage this for so long. As they had left the castle, Guinevere had hugged them both, giving them the instruction to take their time. “I’ve got a birthday party to set up and organize,” she had said, “so please, even though I know this is difficult for you, Arthur my dear, _slow down._ If either of you are back before at least four hours have passed, I’m tossing you back out myself.”

Lancelot had to wonder if that was Guin’s way of telling him to suck it up and patch things up; she had seemed far too happy about the whole situation, and though he loved her dearly, he also wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her until she understood that _it wasn’t that simple._

His eyes wandered back to Arthur’s smooth gait and the trees surrounding them, bringing back fond memories of times past. The burning question of _What do we do, now that you know?_ welled up in his chest, flooded his mouth and died on his tongue, and they both kept walking in silence.

* * *

Seeing Misty Lake was always a relief, and today, it was a godsend. Lancelot’s eyes took in the familiar fog hanging low over the waters of his home, feeling a sense of ease soothe the constant emotional turmoil he felt when he was at his king’s side. He stepped to the side, sticking by the tree line, while Arthur approached the lake’s edge, calling out a greeting. The mist parted like a curtain, and out stepped Nimue, glorious as ever.

“King Arthur,” she greeted with a curtsy, as Arthur bent over in a bow.

“Long time, no see, Lady Nimue.”

“Indeed. You know, you are permitted to visit more often, should it please you.”

Arthur let out a sheepish laugh, letting go of the bouquet with one hand, using it to run his fingers through his spines. “Yes, well… perhaps from now on, I’ll start having more time to spare.”

Nimue giggled, looking at him warmly. “Come now, I did not mean that as an order. The life of a king is a full one, laden with responsibility. No one is ever fully suited for it, but I must say, you’ve done remarkably well, despite what you may think.”

“Thank you… In fact, that’s the reason I’m here today. I wanted to thank you, Nimue. For everything.”

Lancelot watched, feeling shamefully voyeuristic, as though he didn’t belong in the mix, as Arthur handed the bouquet to his mother, who took it rather bemusedly.

“That’s very kind of you, Arthur, though if I’m not mistaken, it’s your birthday, not mine. I believe you would be the one to receive gifts today?”

Arthur grinned that confident, radiant grin of his. “I’ve never been one for tradition.”

“I remember well. Even as a child, you seemed to know exactly where your heart lay.” Nimue looked down at the roses, smiling warmly. “How long has it been since the day you ran across my lake?”

“Twenty-five years.”

“Twenty-five years…” she replied, a touch of nostalgia in her tone. “My how time flies, even when, to one such as myself, time means close to nothing.”

“It’s hard to believe,” Arthur agreed, nodding his head. “A quarter of a century, and in all those years, I don’t think I’ve ever properly thanked you to your face. So…” He took a breath, cleared his throat, and stood up straight, looking Nimue in the eyes. “Thank you, for believing in me, even though I’ve let you down sometimes, and rest assured that I will strive to make up for those times. Thank you for giving me guidance, for showing me my path, for leading me to my destiny. It… hasn’t been an easy one, but with time, I’ve accepted and embraced it as mine, and today, I cannot imagine another path I could have taken. Thank you for your friendship. Thank you for your magic. Thank you for all the times I’ve turned to you for help, with questions I couldn’t answer. Thank you for Caliburn. And… most of all…”

Arthur’s voice went much quieter, and despite still feeling like an outsider looking in, Lancelot strained his ears to listen.

“...most of all, thank you for bringing to me one of the most important people in my life.”

And suddenly, Arthur turned around, and those bright green eyes were focused on him, with a look so tender and warm that Lancelot felt himself stop breathing as his knees went weak. He stared back, hypnotized, mind unable to process that look he had just been given, and even as Arthur turned back to Nimue, his heart kept pounding and his head kept spinning and _what was going on? What was this?_

“And so I, erm…” Arthur swayed from one foot to the other as Nimue waited patiently. “...if I may, I would like to, uh… ask for your… for your blessing…” His voice trailed off awkwardly, and in response, Nimue let out a jovial laugh.

“Of course you have it! You’ve always had it!” Her laughter only increased as Arthur looked at her in surprise. “Arthur, I’ve been around for centuries, and I consider myself to be one with a romantic heart in nature. After a while, one begins to pick up on certain things… and I’ve had a hunch about the two of you for quite some time.”

“...Oh…” 

Once again, Arthur’s nervous hands ran through his quills, while Lancelot struggled to comprehend what was going on. What were they _saying?_ What were they _talking about?_ What was going on, why did nothing make sense, there was no way, no way, no way, no way at all that…

“Well then,” his mother continued, plucking one rose from her bouquet and handing it back to Arthur, “in that case, I believe I should leave the rest to you. As much as I would love to catch up with you and my son, it appears you two have much to discuss.” As she turned her head to look at him and send him a wave, Lancelot’s brain felt as though it shut down, and he mirrored her wave like a confused, empty shell of a person. “Don’t waste any more time… After all, unlike me, you don’t have an infinite amount to spare.”

“Ah, um… right.” Arthur took the flower offered back to him, and Nimue stepped backwards and disappeared into the mist, with only her voice filtering through the thick fog.

“As always, the happiest of birthdays to you, King Arthur Pendragon.”

For a second or two, Arthur kept looking to the lake, before squaring his shoulders and turning back around, walking toward Lancelot with reddened cheeks and a bashfulness that was so unlike him that it only served to further strengthen the incredible confusion in Lancelot’s being. Arthur turned his head to the side, suddenly unable to meet Lancelot’s gaze, even with the visor shielding the knight’s eyes from view, and held the lone rose forth. “H-Here.”

And, still a bewildered shell of a person, Lancelot took it without a word, watching silently as Arthur looked all around them, fidgeting and shifting from one leg to the other until everything seemed to come to a peak and he blurted out, “Let’s race.”

With that, he darted through the trees, and with only a split second to react, Lancelot followed, mind still blank and the hand clutching the rose coming to his chest to protect it from the air rushing past him. Running proved helpful, and the rhythmic breathing and sudden awareness of his surroundings started to bring Lancelot back into the present, but all too quickly, Arthur skidded to a halt and Lancelot barely managed to stop himself as well before he shot past him.

“Sorry,” Arthur said, still breathing more heavily due to the sudden, brief, and intense exertion, “but I thought a run would help me handle things better.” He gave a sharp exhale. “It didn’t. I guess I just… before I lose my nerve. What do you think about all this?”

Just like that, Lancelot’s brain threatened to shut down again. “I don’t understand.”

Arthur made an odd noise, as though pained, and he glanced down at the flower in Lancelot’s grasp; their run, though short, had still taken its toll on the bloom, as some petals were starting to come loose and the stem was beginning to bend where it was being held, though the flower remained otherwise intact. “Guin was right,” he finally mumbled, “I really do have to just say it.”

_Guin? What did she have to do with--_

“Lancelot.”

And suddenly those eyes were looking at him, still bashful but determined, powered by an emotion that Lancelot knew but couldn’t name, because there was no way, at all, ever, that--

“I love you.”

...

...

...

Did the world stop spinning, or did time stand still, or did everything get turned upside down? That sound, that hideous cacophony in his ears, was that laughter? Was Lancelot laughing? His hand flew up to his face, lifting up his visor so he could check, and yes, whatever that noise was, it was coming from him. His mouth was twisted in what was either a smile or a grimace and he couldn’t tell which. Nothing made sense. Nothing, nothing, nothing at all. Was he a madman? Was he asleep, dead to the world because all he could do was dream?

“Lance?”

Then two hands landed on his shoulders, and there was ground back beneath his feet, and Arthur’s eyes bored into his, wide with concern and dismay and fear, and the laughter stopped, just like that. Inside his head, Lancelot continued to struggle between the denial he was so accustomed to, and the absolute trust he had in his friend.

But inside his heart, the trust had already won.

“...Lance?”

“You… don’t be a fool, Arthur. Think of your kingdom and your image.” Bitter defeat welled up inside Lancelot like a tidal wave, drowning out all other feelings in a sudden surge. “Don’t throw that all away for someone like--”

“I don’t have to announce it to anyone, least of all to my entire kingdom,” Arthur interrupted, suddenly stern. “And don’t you dare say ‘someone like me’ as though you’re anywhere below me.”

“I am!” Lancelot insisted. “You’re the king! I’m but a knight!”

“I’m a knight too,” Arthur retorted, though the argument was weak.

“And must I remind you? You have a wife!”

“Are you joking?” Arthur’s eyes narrowed in frustration. “Guin approves! She _wants_ this for us!”

Lancelot started to shake as his will to keep fighting began to crumble. “But this… surely isn’t legal at all, and--”

Arthur’s hands fell from his shoulders, and it was enough to make Lancelot silence himself instantly. “Lance… with all this arguing against me, it’s starting to sound like… you don’t really…”

The words alone were like a punch to the gut, but the hurt in Arthur’s voice pushed him to respond immediately. “I do. By the gods, Arthur, I love you with all my heart, but… someone has to think about you. About what this would do to you.”

And though the words hurt to say, the way Arthur brightened up at his declaration inspired an indescribable feeling of warmth within Lancelot’s core. His friend turned back to him, gentler than before, with that incredible tender look coming back into his eyes, trapping Lancelot in place.

“That’s true. You're always thinking of me… so maybe it's time I did the same for you. Maybe it's time I finally did what is right by _you,_ Lancelot. Maybe things won't be perfect, and maybe it won't fix any pain, but I know what I want, and what I want is to give us a try. If there's any chance that I can make you happier, even if it means risking my reputation, then I want to do it.” Arthur’s hand raised, and suddenly he was cupping Lancelot’s cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over his scar, obliterating within the knight any last resolve to fight. “There's nothing I want more in the world than you by my side.”

Lancelot squeezed his eyes shut, feeling so many complicated and conflicting emotions, but at the core of it all, he heard his heart. He heard Arthur’s words, and Arthur had made his choice, clearly spelling out what he wanted, and Lancelot knew that it was his turn to make a choice of his own. He thought back to his code as a knight, to do what was right, what was best, to make hard decisions quickly and to reap the rewards and the consequences of whatever he sowed. And today, right now… he wanted to listen to what his heart was telling him.

Once upon a time, Guin had told him to take what he wanted if it was offered to him. Maybe it was about time he listened to her as well.

Taking a deep breath, Lancelot took a step backwards, sliding away from Arthur’s touch for a moment to kneel on the ground. He gently placed the rose he had received on the grass and then, after a second of hesitation, slid his helmet off of his head, putting it protectively over the delicate bloom. He stood up, face entirely exposed, and though it made him nervous, he was glad to do it. He wanted Arthur to see him, to see the face he hid from the world, shielded by a title he treasured and the illusion of invulnerability.

Before him, Arthur looked beside himself with joy, and Lancelot’s eyes widened as he, too, reached up, grabbing his crown and dropping it unceremoniously to the forest floor, and though Lancelot wanted to protest, he held his tongue, because he _understood._ He knew what Arthur meant. In that moment, they weren’t facing each other as a king and his knight, but as men, as friends and partners, as two people ready to take a new step forward.

It was Lancelot who took the first step, reaching forth to put his hands on Arthur's waist, and Arthur mirrored him, closing the distance between them as his hands landed on Lancelot's back. For a moment, they simply looked at each other; Arthur's smile shone bright, once more like the sun in the sky, but so close that Lancelot was finally able to attain it. As he leaned in, so did Arthur, and as their lips met, a happy breeze whistled around them, as though the winds themselves were celebrating their union.

* * *

On her lake, several yards away, Nimue felt the stirring breeze and smiled, closing her eyes.

_Your tale has been a splendid one, Lancelot du Lac. I pray that, from now on, it is a happy one as well._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *roll credits as Live Life by Crush 40 plays*
> 
> Wow. Just. Wow. There it is, complete, and here I am, at a loss for words to express how finishing this feels. There’s a lot to say otherwise, and not much room to say it, so let’s get right into it all!
> 
> First off, a fact! The white rose, among the other things listed, also represents loyalty, new beginnings, and everlasting love.
> 
> Next off, answering some potential questions!
> 
> 1) Will I be making more works for the Sonic archive? Of course! I have two (potentially three) ideas: a oneshot focusing on Shadow (with Rouge and Omega as supporting characters) which I’ll probably write all at once one day, and for those of you who like Sonic Boom, a sort of continuation of the cartoon… except now, there’s Team Dark. It’ll probably be a long-term work that I update every once in a while, with no set schedule, as ideas come to me. And (potentially) a third instalment for the Storybook Series, based on Greek Mythology, though that’s a nebulous idea and I have… so many other things to write.
> 
> 2) Will I be making more SatBK fics? ABSOLUTELY. I love SatBK and its universe and this personal spin that I’ve put on it, and now, I’m very happy to officially announce that after random bouts of ideas and inspiration, Tales of Avalon is the first part of a trilogy. I have ideas for a second and third instalment, and though I don’t have set plots yet, I’m very eager to get started. IN ADDITION, there will be at least two shorter bonus pieces that will come before the sequel, both relevant to the series as a whole, so I do suggest reading those, too!
> 
> Also, can I just say... I wrote this story because I wanted more SatBK content. I wrote this hoping to both fulfil my own need, and inspire others to make their own. Already, there's been some results! (I'm still reeling over the fanart.) So I'd just like to say, please, if you have an idea, bring it to life. You want to use my casting? Do it. You want to use your own casting? Do it! You want to take some ideas from this fic but otherwise do your own thing? Do it! And if, by some absolute miracle, you want to make something based off of this fic? I can't even tell you how absolutely ecstatic I would be to see content based off of my own. But above all, I hope to see new additions to this frankly wonderful AU that is the Black Knight universe.
> 
> And finally, I just want to thank you all for your support. Whether you’ve been here since the beginning, or have only just found this piece, thank you for taking the time to read this work of mine. It means the world to me to see just how many people enjoyed this, and to have received so many kudos, comments, and even art! I can’t thank you all enough.
> 
> In the meantime, you can find me on tumblr @teamxdark; it’s where I post writing updates, as well as fanart, trivia, design notes, worldbuilding notes, incorrect quotes and lots of other fun things!
> 
> Catch you next time, everyone. Follow your rainbow!
> 
> ~Smash 50


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